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I 



A MERRY-GO-ROUND 



A COMEDT 
in Four Acts 



BY 

JAMES VILA BLAKE 



CHICAGO 

T. P. HALPIN & CO. 
1910 



7/C 







Copyright, 1910 

BY 

JAMES VILA BLAKE 



©CLD S2661 



i 



-^ 



A MERRY-GO-ROUND 



CHARACTER, TRAITS, APPEARANCE, ETC. 



Dick Dunder and his wife, recently married, have lately- 
come into the Dunder property. They are about twenty- 
five years old, hospitable and pleasant, but both are 
subject to "moods." 

Aunt Jane is a maiden lady fifty years of age, bright and 
sprightly, graceful, slender, rather tall, a gentlewoman, 
modest and attractive in face and bearing. 

Uncle Job is sixty years of age, portly, with a broad and 
genial face, grey hair, slightly bald. He is marked by 
a peculiarly hearty, pronounced, cheerful character and 
manner of expression, is bluff, a trifle vociferous, but 
a gentleman in feeling and bearing. 

John Warren is about thirty years of age, a little over 
middle height, healthy, strong, sincere, courteous, im- 
pulsive, and indulgent and affectionate to his man Bob. 

Mrs. Hawtrey is about seventy years old, lovely in appear- 
ance, rather delicate and small of frame, and with 
beautiful old-school manners. 

Agnes is about twenty-seven years old, not given to senti- 
ment, but earnest, sincere, and capable of the strongest 
feeling. 

Bob is about fifty years old, stocky in body, of middle 
height. When he is excited or emphatic he is given to 
an explosive exclamation, a kind of bark or "bow," 
at the end of a sentence. 

O'Grady is about forty-seven years old, with a good- 
natured face, but not particularly comely, is a little 
stiff in her dress and angular in manner, dark grey 
hair, wears a cap. She is very honest and keen of wit 
and is fond of proverbs. 

Gaston is about thirty-five years old, handsome, tall, 
slender, well made, faultless in dress, easy and polished 
in manners. 



A MERRY-GO-ROUND 



ACT I. 

SCENE — The home of Mr. and Mrs. Dunder, a fine manor 
in a large park. The mansion is to the right and 
back of a beautiful garden, and has a handsome front, 
with columns, large front doors, veranda and steps, 
and a small porch at the rear left corner project- 
ing into the garden ; near the rear porch is a small 
gate entering the garden at rear from a shady park 
beyond. The garden at side and front of house is 
rich with paths and flowers and trees, and shrubbery 
easily concealing any one. The time is early morn- 
ing, before breakfast. 

Enters O'Grady. 

O'Grady. 'Tis a fine morning entirely. 

A bird sings in a tree. 

O'Grady. Hark that! He must sing, or his little 
heart break. "What's in heart must out," as 
the folk say. 

A bird flies from a tree and away. 

O'Grady. Ay, there he goes. Good luck to ye, en- 
tirely. 

Mrs. Dunder inside the house, in a very dreary 
tone: 

Mrs. Dunder. O no, no, no, no, no, no. 

O'Grady. Mrs. Dunder in the blues — bad 'cess to 
'em! 

ACT I 



Mr. Dunder inside house, with a bright but 
vexed and loud voice : 

Dick Dunder. Mehitabel, this is ridiculous. On 
such a morning, too. Come, come ! 

O'Grady. Hoh! has 'em as bad himself. When 
she's blue, he's gay; when she's gay, he's blue. 
That's the pickle of it — never o' the same mind 
at the same time. "Not every couple makes a 
pair," as the folk say, and "A bad Jack may 
have as bad a Jill." 

Enter Mr and Mrs. Dunder from the house 
by the front door and steps. Mrs. D. speaks 
dismally. 

Mrs. Dunder. Once more, Dick, I ask you not to 
call me Mehitabel. 

Dick. What can I call you? 

Mrs. Dunder. There's my old nick-name. 

Dick. I detest nick-names. 

Mrs. Dunder. Then call me Bel, or Abel, or what 
you please except Mehitabel — odious name ! — if 
I'm worth calling anything. Heigho! 

Dick. O, come now! Nonsense! Ridiculous! 
Preposterous ! You were not like this yester- 
day. What's the matter with you? 

Mrs. Dunder. Yesterday ? Heigho ! I think you 
were this way yesterday. 

Dick. Well, if I had a little attack of the blue 
devils 

Mrs. Dunder. Little! 

ACT I 8 



Dick. Big, then — I fought it off and got over it. 

Mrs. Dunder. You didn't get over it till you did 
get over it. Oh-h-h ! Heigho! I think you 
don't know what it is to see yourself a worth- 
less nobody, a mere encumbrance on the earth, 
useless to yourself and every one else. 
Oh-h-h-h ! Heigho ! 

Dick. Tut! Stuff! Twaddle! Babble! Fiddle- 
de-dee! Don't you know you're everything 
to me? 

Mrs. Dunder. That's just it ! 0-h-h-h! Heigho! 

Dick. O, get some of this air and sunshine into 

you! 

Dick takes a long deep breath and then pounds 
his breast vigorously. 

Mrs. Dunder. O-h-h-h! Heigho! 

Dick. I must take a run around the park before 

breakfast. (Sings:) 

Hey derry down, a-derry derry down, 
A-down, a-down, a-derry! 

Mrs. Dunder. Oh-h-h-h! Heigho! 

Dick. Hey. derry down, a-derry derry down, 
A-down, a-down, a-derry! 

Exit Dick through the garden and rear gate. 

O'Grady. Now, Ma'am, comfort a little! Cheer 
up a bit, entirely. "If you sell bad wares, you 
must not complain at bad money," as the folk 
say. 

Mrs. Dunder. I wish you were not so disagreeably 
pat with your proverbs, O'Grady. 

9 ACT I 



O'Grady. Pat, is it? I always can keep a-patter 
with 'em, they're so many ; and they fit like our 
skin, Ma'am. But come now, have some break- 
fast. 

Mrs. Dunder. Heigho ! I can not eat anything. 

O'Grady. O try a little, taste a little ! I'll serve it 
up fine, entirely. "Eat and live," as the folk 
say. 

Mrs. Dunder. Well, a little something. Heigho! 

Exit Mrs. Dunder into house. Enters Bob, 
left front. 

O'Grady. Well, sir. 

Bob. Well, ma'am. 

O'Grady. What's your name? Who are (you? 
Where did you come from ? And what are you 
doing here ? 

Bob. Bob Honest is my name, I'm my Master's 
man, I came from the city, and I'm doing what 
my master does. 

O'Grady. Oh! Where's your master? 

Bob. Outside, waiting. 

O'Grady. Waiting for what ? 

Bob. Forme. And now, what's your name? Who 
are you? Where did you come from? And 
what are you doing here? 

O'Grady. O'Grady is my name, I'm my Mistress' 
woman, I came from the city, and I'm doing 
what my mistress does. 

ACT I 10 



Bob. Oh! (Aside) Fine old girl ! 

O'Grady. "As like as two peas in a pod," as the 
folk say. (Aside) Fine old boy! 

Bob. This seems a very bird-songy, flowery, shrub- 
bery kind of a place. 

O'Grady. 'Tis so, entirely. 

Bob. Just the place for such a comforty, cheery 
and buxomy kind of a body as you. 

O'Grady. It's like to be no place at all for such 
a forwardy, brazeny, sauce-boxy chap as you. 

Bob. I say, ma'am, at your service — no offense — 
I'm fifty. 

O'Grady. Fifty what? 

Bob. Fifty years old. How old are you? 

O'Grady. Impudence! I'm "as old as my tongue 
and a little older than my teeth," as the folk 
say. 

John Warren outside impatiently calls Bob. 

Bob. Halloo! What! It's my master. I forgot 
him. I say, isn't this the place of Mr. Richard 
Dunder ? 

O'Grady. 'Tis indeed. 

Bob. I'll be back soon. Hark 'e! Master's here! 
So am I ! Bow ! 

Bob utters the last word with explosive force, 
then exit. O'Grady starts and remains star- 
ing after Bob. Mrs. Dunder, inside : 

Mrs. Dunder. O'Grady. 

11 ACT I 



O'Grady. Coming, ma'am. 

Exit O'Grady into house. Enters Gaston, right 
front looks about warily, and secretes himself 
in the shrubbery. John Warren and Bob out- 
side : 

John. I say, yes. 

Bob. Saving your presence, no, indeed, sir. Bow ! 

John. Bring along the trap. 

Enter John Warren and Bob, Bob carrying a 
large traveling-bag. At same moment enters 
O'Grady from house and descends the steps. 

John. I say you were long enough to build the 
place. (Seeing Bob's gaze fixed on O'Grady) 
Oh ! I understand, you sly rogue ! 

Bob. What, sir? Me, sir! No, sir! Bow! 

John. Don't mind my man, good woman. He's 
harmless. So, this is my old friend, Dick 
Dunder's country home. Handsome, must say. 
I'm Mr. John Warren. 

O'Grady. O, there, la! yes, sir! I've heard them 
say they expected you 'today — not quitje so 
early, sir. 

John. No — found I could come — got out of the 
noise and dust the first chance. Well Bob, you 
can go back now. 

Bob. What, sir? Go back, sir? Leave you, sir? 
I, sir? When did I? No, sir! Bow! 

John. What's the matter with you? You said 
you'd go back — didn't want trees — wanted peo- 
ple. 

ACT I 12 



Bob. I've altered my mind, sir. Where you are 
is my place, sir. And (with a sly look at 
O'Grady) there are people here, sir. 

John. O, well, stay then. I dare say you can find 
a place to stow in. 

O'Grady. O, sure, sir, I'll stow him, entirely. 

Enters Agnes from house and descends steps. 
Seeing Warren she busies herself with some 
shrubs and flowers in garden. 

O'Grady. Miss Hawtrey, ma'am, here is Mr. War- 
ren, come early. 

Agnes advances cordially. O'Grady and Bob 
confer by themselves, looking at the others. 

Agnes. Ah ! Let me do Mrs. Dunder's office for 
the moment and say you are welcome. You are 
early indeed, though expected today. 

John. I fled the city as soon as I could. Miss 
Hawtrey. 

Agnes. And you will find this worth while. Oh! 
this splendid air ! How fine it is to be up and 
out early ! Was ever such a morning ? 

John. Never to me, because I never met you be- 
fore. 

Agnes. Oh ! Mr. Warren, is that the way you talk 
to women ? From what Mr. Dunder said of his 
old friend I thought better of you. 

John. Miss Hawtrey! 

Agnes. Yes, indeed; and you must cry a truce to 
flattery if you wish to talk with me. 

13 ACT I 



O'Grady. Troth, and she's right too, entirely. 
"Can't I be your friend, but I must be your 
fool too?" as the folk say. 

Bob. Don't you be too fine, O'Grady. Master 
knows the right talk. Bow! 

Agnes starts, and looks at Bob. 

John. Ah ! Quite harmless. Miss Hawtrey. Faith- 
ful fellow ! My man. Bob Honest. 

Agnes. O'Grady, show Honest where to put Mr. 
Warren's portmanteau. 

Exeunt Bob and O'Grady into the house 
through the small rear porch. Bob carrying the 
baggage. 

John. How do you wish me to treat you, Miss 
Hawtrey ? 

Agnes. Just like a man, sir. 

John. No better? 

Agnes. Not unless you treat men ill. 

John. But no more politely? 

Agnes. Not unless you treat men rudely. 

John. But — should not a man have sentiment, 
carefulness, chivalry for a woman? 

Agnes. That is for the man to answer. 

John. But then he will speak to her differently. 

Agnes. But not tell her lies. 

John. Lies? 

ACT I 14 



Agnes. Certainly. Flatteries are lies, the cheap- 
est of lies. 

John. You abash me. Pardon me, but I never met 
such a girl as you in all my life. 

Agnes. Unfortunate for me; else you would have 
treated me better. 

John. That's severe. 

Agnes. I don't mean it so. There's my hand on it. 
Come, let us be pleasant company — we owe it 
to our friendly hosts. 

John. Ah ! true. I am — I will be. Thank you. 

Agnes. Mother and I arrived only yesterday — 'tis 
much too soon to begin to be unpleasant, you 
know. 

John. Too soon? Oh! ah! yes, certainly. You 
are old friends of — 

Agnes. Mrs. Dunder — here for a little visit. 

John, Yes — just as I am Dick's old chum, and 
here for a visit. Please tell me of poor Dick. 

Agnes. Poor Dick? 

John. Yes, since his misfortune. 

Agnes. Misfortune? 

John. Yes, that affair a month ago — by-the-way, 
I didn't see you at the wedding. 

Agnes. No, we were on the ocean at the time. 

John, Ah ! happy escape. 

15 ACT T 



Agnes. Escape ? 

John. Yes, there was the usual torn- foolery — in 
fact, rather more. 

Agnes. Mr. Warren! 

John. How is my old friend since he went to 
prison ? 

Agnes. Prison ? 

John. Yes, tied himself up in that leash. 

Agnes. Leash ? 

John. Yes, like a dog straining at his chain. 
Plainly, I mean his marriage. 

Agnes. Why, Mr. Warren ! You forget that Mrs. 
Dunder is my dear old friend. 

John. O, no I don't. It may be as bad for her 
as for him, for aught I know. 

Agnes. Well, well ! 

John. O, I know you will look and act like all 
the girls as. soon as I tell the truth. But I 
might as well make a clean breast of it, Miss 
Hawtrey. I deem marriage about the foolish- 
est and least dignified of all the stupid and 
ridiculous things a free man can do. It's down- 
right imprisonment, it's duress, limbo, block- 
ade, a stone wall, a hedge of thorns, a cage, 
a coop, a den, a pen, a dungeon, a lock-up, a 
watch-house, a pound, it's fetters, shackles, 
handcuffs, stocks, a muzzle, it's — 

Agnes. Spare the dictionary, Mr. Warren. 

ACT I 16 



John. Well, haven't I an interest? Poor Dick! 

Agnes. And how do the girls always look and 
act when you — you — well, display that vocab- 
ulary ? 

John. They look first surprised and then grieved, 
and then they drop me, all of them. 

Agnes. Well, I'm surprised, but not grieved, be- 
cause — I agree with you; and so I'll not drop 
you. 

John. You are not mocking? 

Agnes. No, indeed. 

John. It's a serious matter. When I see a fine 
fellow, a fine, manly, large-minded old friend, 
caught in that bird-lime, I fear I am a little 
wild for a time. 

Agnes. I feel just so, only 'tis for the girl, some 
fine, womanly, large-minded friend of my girl- 
hood. 

John. That's right, of course. Miss Hawtrey, I 
ask you, — Is there any greater human dignity 
than to command one's time? Yet that's gone 
at marriage. A man must be at home on time, 
and stay there on time, and be at meals on time 
— O, dreadful! 

Agnes. Yes. 

John. And at thirty, or even at twenty-five, a man's 
a ninny or else he has convictions. Now, sup- 
pose he marries contrary convictions; then he 
must be flabby or fight. Horrible! 

17 ACT I 



Agnes. Yes. 

John. And at thirty a man's a booby or else he 
has firm and fixed habits. These are locked 
up with opposed habits, and then one must 
yield, or there's war. Wretched! 

Agnes. True. 

John. And at thirty a man's a fribble or else he 
has some strong tastes. He ties up with 
equally strong adverse tastes, or else with a 
limpness of no taste at all; and then he must 
reduce himself or there's a clash. Intolerable! 

Agnes. 'Tis so. 

John. And are these views yours too? 

Agnes. Wholly. 

John. Well, I never met such a girl — 'tis glorious 
to find one. 

Agnes. But I think there is one big, big, big 
thought which you overlook. 

John. And that is — 

Agnes. Ah ! I'll not tell you. You must work out 
your own salvation. 

John. Is that quite fair? I have shown you all 
my hand. 

Agnes. Hand? Are you playing a game? 

John. Why, no. 

Agnes. Neither am I; therefore I have no hand. 
But come, as no one else appears so early at 

ACT I 18 



morning, I must play hostess, though I ar- 
rived but yesterday myself. Would you not 
like to go to your room awhile? You may 
raid the breakfast room when you please, up 
to ten o'clock, and lunch when you please be- 
tween twelve and two. This is liberty hall — 
no one entertains you or plans for you. 

John. Admirable! 

Agnes. But all the household meet at dinner, at 
six o'clock. 

John. And the household are — ? 

Agnes. Our hosts Mr. and Mrs. Dunder, Mrs. 
Dunder's Aunt Jane, a quaint and witty dame, 
who is to live here — O'Grady is her special 
maid, but obliging to everybody — Mr. Dunder's 
Uncle Job, expected today for a long visit — 

John. I saw the Aunt Jane, sprightly lady, and 
Uncle Job, massive party, at the wedding. 

Agnes. Ah! And then my mother and I, on a 
short visit, and yourself, on a visit, I know 
not how short or long. 

Enters O'Grady from house. 

O'Grady. All is placed rightly, ma'am, and Bob 
Honest is wandering in the park, entirely. "A 
wild goose never laid a tame egg," as the folk 
say, and "As good be an addled egg as an idle 
bird." 

Agnes. And now, O'Grady, please show Mr. War- 
ren to his room. 

19 ACT I 



Exeunt O'Grady and John Warren into the 
house. Agnes turns to look after them, and 
still stands so after they have entered the 
house. Meantime Gaston comes from his 
concealment, regards Agnes a few moments, 
and then, as she turns toward front, retreats 
again and emerges as if just from a walk un- 
der the trees. 

Agnes. Mr. Gaston! 

Gaston. Yes, even I, indeed, Miss Hawtrey. 

Agnes. I — I — did not expect to see you here. 

Gaston. Why not? You will see me wherever 
you are, if I can ride or walk or run or fly or 
creep. 

Agnes. Mr. Gaston! You distress me terribly! 

Gaston. I have followed you to plead my cause 
with you again, for my soul is all one fire and 
flame of true love for you. 

Agnes. Why pain me needlessly? I have an- 
swered you twice before, and each answer was 
final. 

Gaston. Don't say that ! Hear me a little ! Grant 
me a doubt, a suspense! I'll not ask "Yes" 
now, if only you will not say "No." Leave me 
a chance to wait, to hope, to dream, that I may 
win you with patience and constancy. 

Agnes. No, no, no, no, no, never, never, never, 
never ! 

Gaston. You are cruel — 

ACT I 20 



Agnes. I don't wish to be, but you push me too 
far. Please understand me now. Any further 
pursuit will be annoyance, persecution, affront. 
You will excuse me. 

Exit Agnes into the house by the front. At 
same time enters John Warren by the rear 
porch, Gaston looks after Agnes. 

Gaston. Hold yourself high — don't you ? But I've 
not done with you yet, and I'll have you yet, 
you and your pretty plum, you little jade! 

John saunters to front through garden, talk- 
ing as he comes. 

John. Too early for breakfast, and too fine out- 
side to stay in. Out-doors is what I came here 
for. Dan Gaston! 

Gaston. Mr. John Warren. 

John. What are you doing here? 

Gaston. Enjoying a morning walk in the country. 

John. Stuff! You've a purpose. There's always 
something up with you. What are you doing 
here? 

Gaston. Well — not answering questions just now. 

John. Add that to your business, then; there are 
some to be answered. 

Gaston. If Mr. Warren is not more careful, I 
shall get the better of him in manners. 

John. Be hanged to your manners ! 

Gaston. Why not ''damn?" That's less boyish. 

21 ACT I 



John. Well, damn your manners, if you like that 
better. Oh, I know you can put on fine ways. 
But they don't go with me. I know you. I 
say, what are you doing here? 

Gaston. Well, perhaps I'm doing just what you're 
doing. 

John. Well, if you're making a visit to Dick Dun- 
der, I'll go back to town till your visit is done 
and over. I didn't know you knew Dick. 

Gaston. I don't. But he has a lovely guest. 

John. Oh! I see! I see! Miss Hawtrey! At 
your old game. 

Gaston. O, no, she's not old; she's young, and 
lovely — and has a plum. We both have looked 
at it all round, no doubt. 

John. You base cur! I make no pretension to 
Miss Hawtrey, but I'll not let you sacrifice her 
as you did Marjorie Brown. You broke her 
heart, deserted her, and killed her. 

Gaston. Disinterested, to be sure. As to the 
tricky Marjorie, yes, I left her, and so would 
you or any man. There are scriptural grounds 
and statutory grounds that — 

John. Dan Gaston, if you end that sentence, I 
swear by the soul of me I'll choke you ! 

Gaston. O, I heard you once had some interest in 
Marjorie. 

ACT I 22 



John. No! I was just beginning to think of her; 
but I'll let no man cry wanton on a girl I've 
even begun to care for. 

Gaston. Yes, I heard she jilted you — when your 
father — don't rage — fell on his ill luck. She 
was glad enough soon to marry me. You're 
afraid now of another mitten perhaps. 

John. I've told you Miss Hawtrey is nothing to 
me, but I'll keep her from your foul claws. 

Gaston. Dropping pretence, now, if we are to be 
rivals, why so common, loud and discourteous 
about it? Can't we be honest and fair rivals? 

John. Dan Gaston, you're a base rascal. Leave 
this place. 

Gaston. Really, Warren, if you're going to make 
such a bore of yourself, I shall have to cut your 
acquaintance. 

John. I'll cut yours now. From this hour I don't 
know you. Away with you! Out of this 
place! In a quarter hour I'll hunt around for 
you, and if I find you, I'll tell Dick Dunder 
what kind of a hound you are, and then you'll 
walk I fancy! 

Exit John into the house, front. 

Gaston. Curse your scrub impudence! But the 
cool head wins. If you thought you could bait 
me to a knock-down, you're a damned inno- 
cent, John Warren. And curse your lies too! 
But you can't cheat me. You're after the girl. 

23 ACT I 



During this speech O'Grady enters from rear 
porch, goes to the gate and looks about, then 
comes to front, and surveys Gaston sus- 
piciously. 

Gaston. Ah! my good lass, here! 

O^Grady. I'm not a lass, sir, because I'm too old, 
and I'm not good because I'm a sinner, as the 
Church says. You're out, entirely. 

Gaston. You're a cute one. 

O'Grady. Ay, too cute for a man here and there, 
entirely. 

Gaston. Say, now, what's Mr. Warren doing 
here? 

O'Grady. I'll tell you all I know. 

Stands looking at him in silence. 

Gaston. Well ? 

O'Grady. I've done it. 

Gaston. What ? 

O'Grady. Told you all I know. I know nothing, 
and that's what I've told you, entirely. 

Gaston. O, you're a shrewd one. Here's for you 
— (gives piece of money). 

O'Grady. Sure, that's a good bit of money. Ye 
don't mean that for me? 

Gaston. Of course not. 

O'Grady. Ye mean to give me a present for my 
best friend. 

Gaston. Of course. 

ACT I 24 



O'Grady. And I promise you it shall go straight 
to the use of the best friend I have in the 
world — (aside) and that's myself. 

Gaston. Come now, what's Warren doing here? 

O'Grady. Why, sir, he came because he came, he's 
doing what he's doing, he is where he is, and 
he will be where he goes. 

Gaston. I don't learn much from you. 

O'Grady. No, nor I don't know anything of you. 
Good luck to you ! 

Stands off and laughs good-humoredly and 
exit through the garden and the rear gate. 

Gaston. It's plain enough. And what to do is 
plain. If I can get Mrs. Hawtrey's ear and 
poison her against Warren! That scrape of 
his father's will twist well enough. But to be 
unknown — . Well, I can look the laudable old 
gentleman, and good luck may get me talk with 
the old lady. 

Exit Gaston, front. Enter O'Grady and Bob 
by rear gate, stealing cautiously in, and look- 
ing tip-toe over tops of the bushes. 

O'Grady. Where is he? I left him here a minute 

ago. 

Enters Uncle Job, front, carrying a large 
valise. 

Uncle Job. By Jove, good freak, my early start! 
Air's fresh and fine. This must be the place. 
Didn't know my good Dick had anything quite 
so grand. 

25 ACT I 



O'Grady. There he is ! He has put his hat on. 

Bob. ril go out and tackle him. You spoke him 
just right, the imperence ! Watch me make at 
him now. 

Bob comes out from the shrubbery and stands 
observing Uncle Job sidewise. Each talks to 
himself : 

Bob. a cheeky old patch ! 

Uncle Job. Ah! a serving man, no doubt. 

Bob. The smug scamp, asking Master's business! 
He has a precious rogue-look in his choppy old 
face. 

Uncle Job. A good honest looking fellow. 

Bob. I'll say the same O'Grady did. He'll learn 
little more. 

Uncle Job. Hem! My good man — 

Bob. O, you lummaxy old rascal ! Bow ! 

Uncle Job. Mercy pickle us! What — what — 
what — what are you saying? I'll have you 
taught better manners. Is this Mr. Richard 
Dunder's place? 

Bob. None of your hanged business. And I'll tell 
you that Mr. John Warren came because he 
came, he's doing what he's doing, he is where 
he is, and he will be where he goes. Bow ! 

Uncle Job. Merciful heavens! My good boy— 

ACT I 26 



Bob. I'm not a boy because I'm too old, and I'm 
not good because I'm a sinner, as the Church 
says. Bow ! 

Uncle Job. Amazing! My good man, I'm a doc- 
tor, a great doctor. Please, let me feel your 
pulse. 

Enters O'Grady, running forward. 

O'Grady. O, Honest, that's not the man. I think, 
sir, you must be the Doctor Uncle Job, Mr. 
Dunder's Uncle. 

Uncle Job. The same, good woman. 

O'Grady. Yes, sir, they're expecting you some 
time to-day, sir, but hardly so early, entirely. 
Come with me, I'll show you your room, sir. 
Breakfast at any time, sir. Honest, bring his 
Honor's baggage. 

Bob. Yes, sir; proud, sir, I'm sure. Sorry I mis- 
took, sir ! Bow ! 

Exeunt into the house, Uncle Job looking sus- 
piciously at Bob. Enters Dick Dunder through 
the rear gate. At same time Mrs. Dunder en- 
ters, on front porch. 

Dick. Hey derry down, a derry derry down, 
A-down, a-down, Orderry! 

What an air ! What a light ! What a morn- 
ing! .What a park, if I do say it of my own! 
Hey ! but that walk — I might say trot — good 
gait — ^has given me a mighty humor for break- 
fast. 

27 ACT I 



Mrs. Dunder has come down the steps, and 
Dick, turning toward the house, meets her. 

Dick. Ah ! nick of time ! Come, my pretty Mehit 
— I mean, pretty Abel, or dainty Bel, breakfast! 

Mrs. Dunder. No, I've had all I want — a mouth- 
ful. Ah me! Heigho! Oh! Dick! Dick! 

Dick. What the ! O, I forgot. Indigo still ? 

Mrs. Dunder. That's unfeeling, Dick. 

Dick. No it isn't. 

Mrs. Dunder. Oh! if you could only know the 
anguish of this spiritual hopelessness. I'd 
rather be a worm outright than be a woman 
and feel like a worm. Heigho ! 

Dick. O, come, now, Mehit — Mehit — I mean Abel 
or Bel, — dee-deed if I shall ever get that! — 
come now, nonsense, ridiculous ! 

Mrs. Dunder. You don't seem to care at all how 
I feel or what I am. 

Dick. Why, yes I do ! I don't want you like this. 

Mrs. Dunder. I knew, I felt, you did not and 
could not want me, Dick, but I didn't think 
you'd tell me so. 

Dick. Dee-dee it ! I didn't mean that. 

Mrs. Dunder. It slipped out unguarded, of course. 
That's the way with the truth. 

Dick. O, come now, Mrs. Dunder, come now ! 
ACT I 28 



Enters O'Grady from house, descends steps 
and comes round to other side of Dick, speak- 
ing as she passes, and picking up Dick's hat, 
which has fallen on the ground, and handing 
it to him. Dick now looks from one to the 
other as each speaks : 

O'Grady. Your Aunt is asking for you, Mrs. Dun- 
der. 

Mrs. Dunder. I'll go to her. Auntie at least 
wants me. 

O'Grady. Yes, wants her, sir, entirely. "Blood 
is thicker than water," as the folk say. 

Mrs. Dunder. I'll go. I'm sorry to be a blight 
to you, Dick. 

O'Grady. Is that what you let her call herself, 
poor dear? "A man has no more goods than 
he gets good by," as the folk say, and no more 
wife than he wants her. 

Mrs. Dunder. I don't see how I ever married you, 
Dick, ever dared give you such a wretched 
creature for a wife. 

O'Grady. Ay, there it is, sir, entirely. "All 
women are good, good for something, or good 
for nothing," as the folk say. Are you saying 
that of her? 

Mrs. Dunder. It would be better for me to die at 
once and leave you free, Dick. 

O'Grady. Ay, again, sir, entirely. Tired of her 
poor life, "Nothing turns sourer than milk," 
as the folk say. 

29 ACT I 



Dick. Hold your tongue, you old gossip. Dee-dee 
your old saws. And you too, Mrs. Dunder. 
Dee-deed if I can stand any more of this dee- 
deed foolishness ! 

Here O'Grady passes behind Dick and helps 
Mrs. Dunder up the steps and into the house, 
while Dick, turned away from them, goes on 
speaking : 

Dick. Here's the morning as fresh as cold water 
and bright as diamonds, the sun shining, the 
birds singing, the winds playing, the trees toss- 
ing, the grass greening, and every thing grow- 
ing and glowing and gleaming, and you are cry- 
ing Heigho ! and Alas ! and Woe is me ! and 
Lack a day ! wailing and mourning, murmuring, 
muttering, croaking, maundering, and piping 
your eye like a water main. It's dee-deed, dee- 
deed, dee-deed ! D'ye hear ? Dee-deed more 
than a man can bear! D'ye hear? Dee-deed 
if I want to look at your dee-deed dismals and 
brine! D'ye hear? 

After a little Dick looks slowly around and 
finds himself alone. 

Dick. Well, I'll be dee-deed! 



CURTAIN. 



ACT I 30 



ACT II. 

SCENE— Same as in ACT 1. Time, noon. 



Enter Bob and O'Grady, from rear porch, 
coming forward, talking: 

Bob. Do you say "No" to me, Moina O'Grady. 

O'Grady. Faith no, I'm not saying "No." 

Bob. 'Tis "Yes," then. 

O'Grady. No, nor "Yes" either. 

Bob. But it must be "Yes" or "No." 

O'Grady. Not at the moment, Bob Honest. Ye're 
too quick entirely. "Think a bit, know a bit," 
as the folk say. 'Tis but six hours since first 
I saw ye. 

Bob. What o' that? Some things are sudden as 
love, and love is sudden as some things. If I 
jump into a pond of ink, I am all black in a 
jiffy. 

O'Grady. But I'm not a pond of ink. Bob. 

Bob. No, but you're a sea of gold, and what's the 
difference ? 

O'Grady. Oh ! I don't shine like that. Bob ! Don't 
ye palaver me too much. And anyhow, 
"Choose a wife rather by your ear than by 
your eye," as the folk say. 

31 ACT II 



Bob. Well, and if I do, who has a pleasanter voice 
than you, Moina O'Grady. 'Tis as sweet as 
the wind in the tree-tops, when it says to the 
birds, ril sing finer than you. 

Enter Uncle Job and Aunt Jane through rear 
gate, coming from walk over the park. They 
come somewhat forward and stand watching 
Bob and O'Grady. 

O'Grady. That's the prettiest thing ye've said yet, 
Bob. But anyhow I tell ye ye're too quick, 
entirely. ''An oak is not felled at one chop," 
as the folk say. 

Bob. You're wrong, and your old saws don't fit 
love. I tell you love may come like a sight at 
the turn of a road. Look you now, I am trav- 
eling a road all hedged with hills and bushes 
that I can't see through. 

Bob, in his enthusiasm and gesticulation, 
steps forward a short step and then another. 
O'Grady turns her head and sees Aunt Jane, 
who beckons to her and she goes at once si- 
lently, and Aunt Jane sends her into the house 
by rear porch on an errand. Meantime Bob 
continues speaking : 

Bob. On both sides of me the shrubs are round- 
ing up and the trees are tall and thick and 
bending in a thatch over the road, and the 
ground is rolling with hills and banks. Mind 
all that now; and I can't see to the right of 
me, or to the left of me, or to the front of me, 
and don't know what I'm near. 

Uncle Job and Aunt Jane point interestedly 
toward Bob, and confer. Then Uncle Job 
comes where O'Grady was standing, and Aunt 
Jane comes to the other side, so that Bob is 
two steps in advance between them. 



ACT II 



32 



Bob. Well, now, I jog along, contented-like, not 
knowing there's any big thing waiting for me, 
when suddenly the road takes a sharp turn 
along the bluff, and the trees are passed, and 
no more bushes, and there, from the crest, 
breaks on my peepers the blue and shining 
sea, all blue in the deeps and the distance, and 
silver-shiny under the sun. Do you mind all 
that, my dear? Now, do you mean to say 
it must be a year or a month or a week or a 
day or an hour before I can see the beamy 
water, and know it, and love it? Do you say 
that, Moina O'Grady? Bow! 

During the last few lines Bob, still very earn- 
est and gesticulating, takes his two steps back- 
ward, and with the last exclamation turns and 
looks into the face of Uncle Job, and recoils 
against Aunt Jane, and recoils again in con- 
fusion to a mid-way position. 

Uncle Job. Ah, Aunt Jane! the pleasant man 
who called me a lummaxy rascal this morning. 

Aunt Jane. No, Uncle Job ! Did he ? Did he say 

that? 

Uncle Job. He did indeed. Madam. And I was 
doing no offense. 

Aunt Jane. Oh! most baneful, baleful, noxious, 
pernicious, noisome, prejudicial, disserviceable, 
sinister, reprehensible ! 

Uncle Job. Ay ! you may well say that, Madam, 
and more. I wonder what Mr. John Warren 
will say to such a — a — a — 

33 ACT.II 



Aunt Jane. Peccability, Uncle Job. 

Uncle Job. Ay! Madam, that is it. What will 
Mr. Warren say? 

Aunt Jane. Say, indeed! What will he not say 
when he hears that his old chum's beloved Un- 
cle, the distinguished M. D, was called a — a — 
what kind of a rascal was it. Uncle Job? 

Uncle Job. Lummaxy, Madam. 

Aunt Jane. Ah ! frightful ! 

Bob. I'm sorry, sir, very sorry ! Ma'am, I'm main 
sorry! It was all a mistake. There was a 
precious rascal about, and I thought you were 
the scrub come back. Don't tell Master, sir! 
Ma'am, pray don't tell him ! He's just a baby, 
sir, a mere baby, yes. Ma'am, and he couldn't 
bear it. 

Uncle Job. A baby? 

Aunt Jane. Baby? 

Bob. Yes, sir, yes, Ma'am, he was always the baby, 
he began so, and somehow he never changes, 
sir, no, Ma'am; he's just so yet. 

Uncle Job. What do you mean, man ? 

Bob. Why, you see, sir, you see, Ma'am, Master's 
the last of 'em all. 'Twas an old family, a fine 
old family, but at last they were all girls, and 
most of 'em never married, and thty that did 
had no children, and Master was just the baby 
of all his sisters, and they're all gone but him, 

ACT II 34 



and no one's left to keep up the line unless he 
marries, which he swears he never will, worse 
luck; and my father was butler in the family 
and I was born in the house, sir, yes, Ma'am, 
and Master was always the baby, sir, yes. 
Ma'am, and that's what he is, and never can be 
anything else to me. Don't tell him! 

Uncle Job. Well, what say you, Madam? I think 
we ought not to startle — the baby! 

Aunt Jane. Oh ! I think so. Uncle Job. Might it 
not give him — what do you medical men call it ? 
— the colic ? 

Uncle Job. That's it. Madam. It might prove 
windy in the infant stomach. We'll not tell 
Mr. Warren, my man. 

Bob. Thank 'e, sir, thank 'e. Ma'am, heartily. 

O'Grady appears from the rear proch. 

O'Grady. Bob Honest! 

Bob. Coming, O'Grady ! By your leave, sir, yes, 
Ma'am. 

Bob goes to O'Grady, they go inside and im- 
mediately come out carrying a' small table set 
for lunch, and place it under the trees, shel- 
tered by the shrubbery, but not invisible to the 
audience. Meantime Uncle Job and Aunt 
Jane are speaking : 

Uncle Job. An interesting story and a good fel- 
low ! 

Aunt Jane. Very. But here comes our lunch. 

Uncle Job. Ah ! 

35 ACT II 



Aunt Jane. Yes, very simple — just muffins and 
fruit. 

Uncle Job. Fine and thoughtful of you, dear 
Aunt Jane, and how pleasant! 

They go to the table under the trees, sit, and 
partake of the lunch. Bob and O'Grady come 
front. 

Bob. You have not answered me, Moina O'Grady. 

O'Grady. Come along into the park. Bob Honest, 
where we can talk easy. 

Bob. I have said all I can, Moina, my dear. 
O'Grady. But I haven't, Bob, my dear. 

Exeunt Bob and O'Grady by rear gate into the 
park. Enter Dick and Mrs. Dunder from 
house, front, Dick a dejected wretched figure. 

Mrs. Dunder. Dick ! Dick ! It's ridiculous, ridic- 
ulous ! It would be amusing if not so foolish. 
I think there never z(jas such a day under the 
heavens; and here at the high noon of it, see 
your dismals and megrims and blues ! It's 
downright wicked ! But you can't indigo me — 
I'm too much in love with things, and, ah, Dick ! 
in love with you too. Come, be gay with me, 
there's a dear ! 

Dick. The day is no finer, Mehitabel — 

Mrs. Dunder. Abel, or Bel! 

Dick. I forgot. The day is no finer now than 
it was this morning. And what were you then ? 

ACT II 36 



Mrs. Dunder. Oh! don't mope in the past, Dick. 
What I zms isn't to the point, but what I am; 
and the same's the point for you. The present 
is the rich time, the good time, the true time. 

Here Mrs. D. pirouettes and dances gaily and 
gracefully around Dick, and sings : 

Hey diddle diddle. 
The cat and the fiddle. 
The cow jumped over the moon. 
The moo-oo-oo-oo-oon. 

The little dog laughed 
To see such craft. 

And the dish ran away with the spoon. 
The spoo-oo-oo-oo-oon. 

Mrs. Dunder. Dick, Dick ! Perk up ! What does 
the good book say about not dancing when they 
pipe to you. Open your mouth and see if a 
smile won't escape. 

Dick gives a dismal, sickly smile. 

Mrs. Dunder. Well, if you can't do better than 
that, don't try. I say it's wicked. 

Dick. Yes, Mehit — I mean, Abel or Bel, that's 
the point. It's the doom of things that's on me. 

Mrs. Dunder. The gloom of things? It's your 
own gloom. 

Dick. I said doom, — though I might say gloom too 
— it's all darkness, blackness, night, midnight. 
It's a sad world, all a heap of misery, and I'm 
only a bit of the heap, and there's a doom over 
it, a doom, — 

37 ACT II 



Mrs. Dunder. Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, what non- 
sense! The world is half bad, but it's half 
good, too, and the good is — is — like me. 

Dick. Why? 

Mrs. Dunder. Because it's the better half! Ha! 
ha! ha! ha! 

Dick. It isn't nonsense, Mehitabel — 

Mrs. Dunder. Abel, or Bel! 

Dick. I forgot. It isn't nonsense, Mehit — I mean 
Abel or Bel — not nonsense; it's all a sad and 
sorry blight. 

Mrs. Dunder. O Dick, what stuff! I'm blue al- 
ways for the same reason — I seem such a no- 
body, a nothing. But when you're blue, you 
always have a new reason; and this is the sil- 
liest stuff of all. 

Dick. You must go your own way, Mehit — I mean 
Abel or Bel — I'm sorry for you, and for my- 
self, and everybody. 

Here Uncle Job and Aunt Jane come forward 
from the shrubbery. 

Uncle Job. Ah ! Dick, my boy ! 
Dick. It's Uncle Job. 

Uncle Job. Yes, and hearty, and glad to see you 
again, Dick, and glad to see you, Mrs. Dunder. 

Mrs. Dunder. We're glad, and glad again, to have 
you here, Uncle Job. Now every one expected 
is here. 

ACT II 38 



Dick. (Slowly and drearily) When did you arrive, 
Uncle? 

Uncle Job. Early this morning — splendid day — 
hurried off — couldn't stay in town another min- 
ute. 

Dick. (Dismally) Glad to see you, Uncle. 

Uncle Job. Are you? Marvelous expression of 
it! If that's your glad face, I don't want to 
see your sad one. Mercy pickle us ! What's 
the matter with you? 

Dick groans and Uncle Job retreats a step or 
two, looking him over. 

Mrs. Dunder. It's nothing, Uncle Job — just a fit 
of the blues. 

Uncle Job. I never knew Dick was subject to such 
damn — Hem ! 'em ! 'em ! 'em ! — I mean such 
sad blue devils. 

Dick. You must not say Mehitabel. 

Uncle Job. Say what? 

Dick. Mehitabel. 

Uncle Job. Who the deuce wants to say Mehit- 
abel, you hypochondriac dunce? Your dol- 
drums have begun to make you luny. 

Dick. It's her name — didn't you hear it at the wed- 
ding? 

Uncle Job. No, I didn't. 

Dick. She doesn't like it. You must say Abel 
or Bel. Make yourself at home. Uncle Job, — 
if you can find a home in this wretched world. 

39 ACT II 



Dick groans dismally and exit into the house. 
Uncle Job stands staring amazedly after Dick, 
and from one to the other. 

Mrs. Dunder. Was ever the like? 

Uncle Job. My poor Dick's gone daft, clean daft. 

Mrs. Dunder. Well, he won't daft me — nor blue 
me, like ill-laundried duds. What a day it is! 
Be at home. Uncle Job. I'll go sit by the spring, 
hear the birds tell their loves, and dream of 
everlasting youth. 

Hey diddle diddle, 
The cat and the fiddle, 
(etc., etc.) 

Exit Mrs. Dunder, rear gate into the park, 
singing the song again till at the end it dies 
away in the distance. Uncle Job stands star- 
ing after her and then turns in a dazed way to 
Aunt Jane. 

Aunt Jane. My niece need not be so jaunty about 
it, Uncle Job; she has blue fits herself just as 
badly. 

Uncle Job. No ! you don't say so, my dear Aunt 
Jane. 

Aunt Jane. O, but I do. You should see her in 
her dumps. She's a spectacle! 

Uncle Job. Why it's frightful, Ma'am. They'll — 
they'll — have — have indigestion, obstinate dys- 
pepsia, at the very least, and perhaps diseased 
liver. I assure you medically, it's frightful. 
Not very attractive for the long visit I meant 
to make. 

ACT II 40 



Aunt Jane. Then let me be attract — I mean, let 
me beg you to — to — 

Uncle Job. Finish the word, Ma'am, and say at- 
tractive, for it's the truth. Such pleasant com- 
pany as you are giving me, dear Madam, so 
witty and charming, I never have had in all 
my bachelor life. 

Aunt Jane. Ah ! Uncle Job, I fear you are re- 
viving your youthful flatteries. 

Uncle Job. Never had any. Ma'am, never had any, 
and haven't any old flatteries now. I take it 
a little hard. Ma'am, that we two never met be- 
fore the wedding of our nephew and niece. 

Aunt Jane. I have a haunting fancy that we met 
once, long ago, somewhere. 

Uncle Job. Indeed, my dear Aunt Jane? 

Aunt Jane. Yes, I can not account for it, un- 
less — 

Uncle Job. Unless ? 

Aunt Jane. Why, you see, I attended recently a 
lecture on Pythagoras — 

Uncle Job. Yes — ? 

Aunt Jane. And I have thought that perhaps you 
frightened me dreadfully once when I was a 
mouse and you were a cat. 

Uncle Job regards with undisguised admira- 
tion Aunt Jane's coy gentleness and pretty 
face animated with her roguish pleasantry. 

41 act II 



Uncle Job. Ah ! dear Madam, I can go you one 
better. That cat caught and ate up that mouse, 
and I have been part you ever since. But se- 
riously, my dear Aunt Jane, we ought to do 
something for those children. 

Aunt Jane. What shall it be? You are the pre- 
scriber, Doctor Uncle Job. 

Uncle Job. We must talk to them, roundly. I 
must tell you. Ma'am, that I have retired from 
active practice, partly because I found myself 
a little tired, but largely because I became 
deeply interested in Manias — you know what I 
mean, Ma'am — Dipsomania, Kleptomania, 
Graphomania, Egomania, Megalomania, Pyro- 
mania — a long list of them. I have a chari- 
table notion that much human misconduct is to 
be pitied kindly on account of these manias. 
I wish to study them medically and psychologi- 
cally. The blue devils are of the same class. 
The first thing to do is to rouse the will of the 
patient. We must talk to them in a very plain 
way. 

Aunt Jane. Yes. 

Uncle Job. Will you talk to your niece. Ma'am, 
while I give Dick a good round understanding? 

Aunt Jane. Indeed, I will. Come into the park, 
Uncle Job. There is a great splendid oak there 
— my favorite tree — which I wish to show you, 
and under its shade you can instruct me just 
how to talk to Mehitabel. 

act II 42 



Uncle Job. I am with you, dear Madam. 

They go toward rear gate into the park. En- 
ters John Warren at the gate, and they meet 
near it. 

Uncle Job. Ah ! Mr. Warren ! 

John. My old friend's Uncle Job! And Mrs. 
Dunder's Aunt Jane! Charming to meet here 
after the wedding ! 

Aunt Jane. Yes, and a charming place. We are 
just going to the big oak. 

John. I have just seen it — splendid tree! Bon 
voyage and au revoir! 

John comes on forward. Uncle Job looks 
after him a moment. 

Uncle Job. Polite fellow ! 

Exeunt Uncle Job and Aunt Jane by rear 
gate. John comes through shrubbery and 
reaches a sheltered place at left just as Agnes 
enters from house, carrying a very small 
table and a vase of water. She places table 
and sets vase on it, goes to garden near house, 
gathers some flowers, takes a chair from un- 
der a tree, returns to table, sits and begins to 
arrange the flowers in the vase. John has 
watched her unseen, with signs of admiration. 
He now enters from shrubbery, as if sur- 
prised. During the talk Agnes continues ar- 
ranging the flowers. 

John. Ah ! Miss Hawtrey ! 

Agnes. Mr. Warren! Are not these beautiful? 

John. Which? 

Agnes. Eh? (gives John a Uttle stare) All of 
them. 

43 ACT II 



John. Yes ; but there is one most lovely. 

Agnes. Eh? (another little stare.) 

John. Miss Hawtrey, I have been enjoying a 
charming sight. 

Agnes. Ah ! Tell me about it — I'll find the place. 

John. I fear you may not agree with me. 

Agnes. Not agree? (another little stare) Do 
you think I do not know a fine view when I 
see it? 

John. You might dispute my taste. I can not 
expect always such entire agreement as in our 
talk this morning. 

Agnes. About that talk, Mr. Warren, I have 
thought of another reason, not mentioned in 
your wise remarks, why marriage is objection- 
able for women. 

John. And that is ? 

Agnes. This, that a woman generally has to plot 
and contrive how to keep her husband. Think 
of the ignominy of that ! 

John. But that could not aflfect you, Miss Haw- 
trey. A husband never could be heedless or 
fickle to you. 

Agnes. Again? Is that the way you talk to 
women? — through little windows of flatteries? 

John. I protest 

ACT II 44 



Agnes. Now, now — don't protest, please! Talk 
better to me. You do little honor to my good 
sense. 

John. I vow, Miss Hawtrey, I never was so be- 
snubbed in my life. 

Agnes. Snubbed? You spoke just now of my 
agreeing with you; was that snubbing? 

John. Why, no; but 

Agnes. Ah ! I fear there is a reason not yet men- 
tioned why you contemn marriage; you have 
been unfortunate in your women friends. 

John. Miss Hawtrey! 

Agnes. Certainly. You seem accustomed to wit- 
less little creatures who must be flattered into 
complacency. 

John. Miss Hawtrey, you — you 

Agnes. Pray, Mr. Warren, do you remember your 
mother? Or perhaps she is still on the earth. 

John. No; I grieve to say I never saw my mother, 
except as a child of two years may see. 

Agnes. Oh! that is a loss that may explain any 
kind of error. 

Enter Mrs. Hawtrey from house, front. 

Agnes. And oh ! here is my mother. Let me pre- 
sent you, Mr. Warren. You will find no lack 
of grace in her, however blunt I may be. 
Mother, here is Mr. Warren, our host's old 
friend. 

45 ACT II 



Mrs. Hawtrey. Young gentleman, I am sincerely- 
pleased to see you, and in so pleasant, so lovely 
a place. My dear, let me walk a few minutes 
among the trees and bushes. 

Mrs. Hawtrey goes slowly into the shrubbery 
and among the flowers of the garden. 

John. How beautiful your mother is ! You may 
well speak of her grace. What old-time sweet 
dignity and courtesy! 

Agnes. Yes, every one admires my mother. 

John. Even Mr. Gaston? 

Agnes. What? So you know Mr. Gaston. No, 
he never spoke of my mother. 

John. I found him here this morning. He made 
pretension to your friendship. 

Agnes. The subject is painful. 

John. Glad of it. I drove him off the place and 
I think he'll not come back. 

Agnes. Mr. Warren, not for my sake, I trust. 

John. Why, to be very honest, yes. Am I taking 
a liberty? It roused my soul to find such a 
villain near you. 

Agnes takes a few steps away and then back, 
thinking, while John regards her silently. 

Agnes. I'll not reproach you, Mr. Warren. I fear 
I must own 'tis a woman's weakness to love to 
be defended, but — there was no need — I had 
defended myself. 

ACT II 46 



Mrs. Hawtrey comes forth from the shrub- 
bery; Agnes seats her mother at the little 
table, and John is attentive. 

Agnes. These flowers are for your room, Marmee. 
Now I'm going to leave you two to barter a 
little. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. My dear ! barter ? 

Agnes. Yes; you have wisdom, Mr. Warren has 
youth. You must do some exchanging. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. My dear, my dear! 

Exit Agnes into house, front, stopping on 
porch to wave hand to her mother. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. You must forgive my girl a little 
waywardness, Mr. Warren — O, yes, she is a 
little wayward in her own manner — a most fond 
daughter, but just a little wayward and decisive. 

Re-enters Agnes from house bringing a light 
chair which she places for John, and exit, as 
before, with a wave of the hand. 

John. That's a good style of waywardness, 
Ma'am. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Oh! she is kindness itself, kind- 
ness, kindness, thoughtfulness without end, and 
goodness — no better daughter could be. Yet, 
wayward. She thinks, and seems resolved to 
live herself and be just herself, without ever 
asking whether any one else in the world ever 
felt or thought or did the like. Sometimes I 
feel tenderly anxious as to what may be her 
fortune in life; for so to settle things for her- 
self is — not exactly alarming — but a little — 

47 ACT II 



what shall I say? — a little threatening. One 
stands, as it were, always at bay. Is it not so? 
Yes. Now, my Agnes thinks, as I have said, 
and has ways of her own, and so by a kind of 
truthful pleasantry, is wayward. 

John. That attracts some as much as it repels 
others. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. The few. 

John. And the best. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. I hope so, indeed I hope so. But 
you can not conceive how wayward, original, 
resolute she is. For instance, if you praise any 
one, she at once tends the other way, or at least 
becomes aloof, indifferent — unwilling to be in- 
fluenced — must judge for herself. Perhaps 
she thinks they are happy enough already. But 
if you dispraise any one, she strongly inclines to 
that person, always ready to stand by the as- 
sailed, the abused, unfortunate or neglected. 

John. Ah! So? Then I wish you would speak 
of me to your daughter with some little disap- 
proval. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. No, indeed; that would be most 
ungracious. 

John. At least you kindly will refrain from any 
approbation. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Oh! that would be ungracious, 
too. I am much more likely to say how gently 
you have listened to an old lady's prattle about 
her girl. 

ACT II 48 



John. Oh ! dear Madam, I pray, that — ^that might 
be fatal. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Fatal? To what? 

John. I mean — that is — pardon me — the wrong 
word — undeserved. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Indeed, no. You have given me 
delightful attention. But I must go in now. 
It is my custom to take a little airing and then 
a little rest every day at noon. 

They go to the house, John carefully attentive 
to her. On the steps they pause a moment 
and look around the scene. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. What a very charming place ! 

John. It seems a spot where everything good and 
nothing ill should happen. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. So did Eden. We must take the 
bitter with the sweet, and some day we shall 
know why. 

Exeunt into the house. Bob and O'Grady en- 
ter by rear gate. 

O'Grady. Bob, my dear. 

Bob. Well, Moina, honey. 

O'Grady. There's one thing we haven't thought of, 
entirely. 

Bob. And what's that? 

O'Grady. Your master and my mistress. 

Bob. Well, what of them ? 

O'Grady. What will they say? 

49 ACT II 



Bob. Did you bring up your mistress? 

O'Grady. What are you thinking of, entirely? 
She's as old as I am. 

Bob. Well, I served in the family when Master 
John was born, and I helped bring him up. So 
I think he'll say about what I say. 

O'Grady. Oh! 

Bob. Yes. 

Enters John Warren on front porch from 
house, sees the two talking, stops, and re- 
treats just inside door, with his head out lis- 
tening. 

O'Grady. I can't say that of my mistress, entirely, 
though she's a dear good soul, and a witty. 
What shall we do? "Four eyes see more than 
two," as the folk say. I don't think I can leave 
Mistress, Bob Honest. 

Bob. No more can I leave Master John, Moina 
O'Grady. But if two honest souls love each 
other like — like — like 

O'Grady. You and me. Bob, my dear. 

Bob. Yes — they can fight all creation and bring 'em 
round. Bow ! 

O'Grady. Ay, entirely; and "All things are hard 
before they are easy," as the folk say. 

They go to the rear porch where they pause 
talking. John Warren comes forth onto the 
front porch, and down. 

ACT II 50 



John. Well, by all that's wonderful and all that's 

funny, my old Bob surrendering! Somehow 

he doesn't seem the wry-necked old fool I 

should have thought him awhile ago. Bob ! I 

say, Bob! 

Bob and O'Grady start, O'Grady goes into 
the house and Bob comes down front to John. 

John. Bob, you know that lovely old lady here? 
Bob. Mrs. Dunder's Aunt Jane, sir? 
John. No, no; Mrs. Hawtrey. 
Bob. I haven't seen her, sir. 

John. Well, I want you to find her — O'Grady can 
take you to her — and tell her I'm some kind of 
a bad fellow, it doesn't much matter what. 

Bob. What, sir? Say that my Master is a high- 
wayman, or a pickpocket, or a murderer, or 
some other kind of villain? What are you 
thinking of ? No, sir ! Bow ! 

John. O, not so bad as that, Bob. You can say 
I have a terribly bad temper. 

Bob. But you haven't, sir. 

John. Confound you. Bob Honest! Do as I tell 
you. Hanged if I'll bear your ways to me any 
longer. Do you remember that big bully slap- 
ping the child ? Didn't I turn furious and light 
into him and wallop him? Do you remember 
the ugly party who slid into my seat in the car 
when I was offering it to a woman? Didn't I 
fall into a rage and get him by his ugly neck 
and lug him to the floor? Don't you call that 
a temper? Confound you. Bob Honest, do as 
I tell you, or I'll — I'll — I'll send you home. 

51 ACT II 



Bob. You may send me where you please, but 
you'll not make me lie for you nor to you. I'm 
too old and you're too good. Yes, sir. Bow! 

John. O, Bob, now, now, come, there's a good 
fellow, now, don't be so wilful and unpleasant. 
You needn't make it so very bad — just let drop 
that I have a temper and when it fires up I say 
things and do things — or anything else if you 
don't like the temper. Come, now, won't you, 
Bob — there's a good boy? 

Bob. I suppose if I must, I must; but I don't like 
it. Bow ! 

John. I'll do as much for you some time. 

Bob. You needn't. I don't want any lies told 
about me. Bow ! How am I to begin to talk 
of you to the old lady ? 

John. O, any way — you've wit enough. She is 
taking her noon rest. But you must get in 
your work this afternoon — d' ye hear? Go 
along with you, now, and plan it. 

Bob goes off left front, grumbling; just at 
exit he turns and speaks : 

Bob. Hanged if I like the job. Bow! 

Exit Bob, left front. 

John. Am I falling in love with that girl ? Pshaw ! 
Don't be a fool, John Warren. But there's 
no harm in my playing that game little dodge. 
"All's fair in love and war" — confound it, no, 
I mean all's fair in trade and war. This is a 

ACT II 52 



trade. I pay a trig little plot and get her mind 
set kindly toward me. Bob will abuse me to 
the mother, the mother'll tell the daughter, and 
the daughter'll take a kind interest in the 
abused one. Good ! 

Enters Agnes from house, front porch. 

Agnes. Was ever, ever such a day? The noon is 
as fresh as the morning, with just an added 
touch of fulness and glory, like a fervid heart, 
"passing the love of w^omen," as the good book 
says. 

JoHisr. And so you think women are more loving 
than men? 

Agnes. O, I don't say that. It seems to me vir- 
tues are shared equally. 

John. Wit also — by you. 

Agnes. Now, Mr. Warren 



John. Now, don't call that flattery. Really, I 
won't suffer it. 'Tis a sad pass if I can not 
express a respect without being challenged in 
that manner! I zmll be accepted as sincere. 
Pardon me — I'll go walk a little by myself, to 
collect calmness. 

John goes into the shrubbery or garden and 
walks about slowly. 

Agnes. Hum ! Masterful ! I never was quite so 
checked and rebuked. Mr. Warren! 

S3 ACT II 



John pauses and turns toward Agnes. 

Agnes. Don't you think you might come back and 
collect calmness from me? 

John returns to Agnes. 

Agnes. I have no reproach. And I'll ask pardon, 
if you wish. I want to talk a little of my 
mother. Did you not admire her? 

John. Who could help it? 

Agnes. None, indeed. I am very proud of her — 
her grace and charm. 

John. Beautiful old-time manners — ^the kind 
founded in character. 

Agnes. Yes, and Marmee is as good as her man- 
ners — charitable and generous to a fault. I 
should not be much affected by my mother's 
praise of any one, because to her gentle spirit 
every one is a hero; but if she warned me 
against any one, I should be profoundly influ- 
enced and on my guard, because she is so un- 
willing to think or speak ill of any one. 

John. (Aside) Whew! What have I done? 
Thought I was a fine smarty and turn out a 
fool! Must find Bob and stop him. (Aloud) 
Miss Hawtrey, pray excuse me, I have thought 
of a matter on which I must see my man Bob 
— very important, pressing — can't wait a mo- 
ment — excuse me — abrupt, I fear — sorry — pray 
excuse me. 

ACT II 54 



Exit John, confusedly and hastily, left front. 

Agnes. Well— 1—1! Well! Masterful? I don't 
know. Impulsive enough! 

Enter from park by rear gate Uncle Job and 
Aunt Jane. 

Uncle Job. Our experience in life has been very 
similar, dear Aunt Jane. 

Aunt Jane. Here is Miss Hawtrey, Uncle Job. 
Miss Hawtrey, please be acquainted with Mr. 
Dunder's Doctor Uncle Job. 

Agnes. A pleasure to meet you, and in so very 
charming a place. 

Uncle Job. Thank you, my dear young lady. 
Aunt Jane has been telling me of your adorable 
mother, and I much desire to meet her. 

Agnes. And you will. We all meet at dinner. 
Exit Agnes by rear gate into park. 

Uncle Job. I was saying, dear Aunt Jane, that 
our experience in life has been very similar. 

Aunt Jane. In many ways, dear Uncle Job. 

Uncle Job. But I recall an event not yet men- 
tioned. Once, in my early manhood, I saw a 
face, a girl's face, very briefly, and I never 
have forgotten it. It lives in fancy to this 
hour. In this, no doubt, I stand alone. 

Aunt Jane. Indeed? Listen. In my early life 
— I was but a young girl — I saw a face, a man's 
face, very briefly, and I never have forgotten 
it. It lives in fancy to this hour. 

55 ACT II 



Uncle Job. Marvelous, dear Madam, marvelous! 
What identity! 

Aunt Jane. Marvelous, indeed ! We seem the 
very same persons. Perhaps we were changed 
in our cradles, Uncle Job. 

Uncle Job. Ah ! Madam, is this a matter for 
mirth — even wit as dainty as yours? Dear 
Madam 

Here enters Dick with a loud groan from the 
house, front porch, and at same moment en- 
ters Mrs. Dunder from rear gate, with gay 
snatch of song. 

Uncle Job. Ah ! our charming nephew and niece, 
in their contrasting moods. Let us retire, and 
be entertained. 

Uncle Job and Aunt Jane retire into the 
shrubbery. Dick and Mrs. Dunder meet in 
front. 

Mrs. Dunder. Still in your dumps. Your face is 
worse than a thunder-cloud — that has some 
dignity. 

Dick. Mehit — I mean Abel or Bel 

Mrs. Dunder. You needn't say both at once. 

Dick. I wish you would not be so trivial. You 
are like a bird, with no more sense than to sing 
in a house afire. 

Mrs. Dunder. O, come, now, Dick — come now — 
just see how bright the sun is. 

Dick. O, yes, and what woes the sun shines on all 
over the earth ! 

ACT II 56 



Mrs. Dunder. Well — but what joys, too! 

Dick. O, yes, hollow joys — eating, drinking, empty 
gaities, loveless weddings, riches that fly away. 

Mrs. Dundee. If you would only hold up your 
head and let this fresh breeze blow in your 
face! 

Dick. O, yes, and think of the shipwrecks the 
wind makes on the terrible ocean ! 

Mrs. Dunder. Dick Dunder, you would try the 
patience of Job. 

Dick. My Uncle Job is not patient. 

Mrs. Dunder. I'm not talking of your Uncle. I 
say you would vex a saint, and I'm no saint, 
and my temper's up, and I won't bear your 
stuff and your hang-dog woes any longer. 
Dick, Dick, I won't bear it, I say I won't bear 
it, Mr. Dunder. I won't look at you. (Turns 
her back.) 

Exit Dick, after a groan, by rear gate. 

Mrs. Dunder. If you want to nurse such an ugly 
phiz, you can do it behind my back. There 
are pretty things enough to look at. I say be- 
hind my back! Do you hear? Behind my 
back. 

After a pause, she turns slowly, and finds 

Dick is gone. 

Mrs. Dunder. Well! Tweezers! 

Exit into house, front porch. Uncle Job and 
Aunt Jane come forth, stare after her and 
then at each other. 



CURTAIN. 

57 ACT II 



ACT III. 

SCENE— The Same. Time, late afternoon before dinner. 



Enter Uncle Job and Aunt Jane, from house, 
front porch. 

Aunt Jane. I have had no success with my niece. 
You will think me a sad failure. 

Uncle Job. Not at all, Ma'am, not at all. I had 
no more luck with my nephew. I warrant you 
spoke to her roundly, and I gave Dick a plain 
talk. What did she say? 

Aunt Jane. She said '"Tweezers." 

Uncle Job. What does that mean ? 

Aunt Jane. I don't know. What did he say? 

Uncle Job. He said he'd be dee-deed. 

Aunt Jane. What does that mean? 

Uncle Job. Well, hem! I think dee-deed means 
damned. 

Aunt Jane. Why, Uncle Job ! Did Dick say that 
to you? 

Uncle Job. Yes, he did. How did she say 
"Tweezers" ? 

Aunt Jane. Like this — Tweezers! 

Uncle Job. Or more like this — Tweezers ! 

Aunt Jane. Yes, just like that. 

59 ACT III 



Uncle Job. I think, Ma'am, that Tweezers means 
the same as dee-deed. 

Aunt Jane. Why, Uncle Job, consider — she's a 
woman, and a lady, and my niece. 

Uncle Job. I know it ; but "there are more things 
in heaven and earth," etc. Now, what shall 
we do with this precious couple? 

Aunt Jane. What, indeed? If only we could 
bring them to have their blues at the same 
time! 

Uncle Job. Ha! a woman's wit! Yes, and to be 
gay at the same time. Then their deuced 
dumps would not matter so much. 

Enters John Warren hurriedly, right front. 

John. Ah ! Doctor ! Madam ! Have you seen 
my man, my rascally Bob? 

Uncle Job. Why, no. 
Aunt Jane. Why, no. 

John. He ought to know I want him — confound 
him, he ought to know it by instinct. I have 
been hunting him high and low for an hour. 
Where can he be ? I must see him ! 

Uncle Job regards John suspiciously. 

Uncle Job. Feverish manner, fiery eye. Pray, 
sir, let me feel your pulse. Ah! a good pulse. 

John. Good pulse! good cabbage! I want my 
man. 

ACT III 60 



Uncle Job. Why, then, sir, find him, sir, find him ! 

Damme, sir Hem! 'em — 'em — 'em — 'em! 

But you are too short, sir, too short. My 
dear Aunt Jane, allow me. 

He leads her off gallantly through the garden, 
talking : 

Uncle Job. Very suspicious conduct, I assure 
you. Ma'am, medically suspicious. 

Exeunt Uncle Job and Aunt Jane by rear gate. 

John. By Jove, I have not looked in Bob's room. 
Where is his room ? 

Enters O' Grady, front porch. 
John. O, I say, O'Grady, where is Bob's room? 

O'Grady. Third floor rear corner north — you can't 
miss it, sir. 

Exit John into house hurriedly, front porch. 

O'Grady. Now, what does he want, entirely? 
He's mighty hot for something, but he'll get 
it the less. "Jack Hurry never overtook 
Time," as the folk say, and "You may kick, 
but if you kick too hard, you hurt your foot." 

Re-enters John. 

John. He isn't there. 

O'Grady. I could have told you that, sir. 

John. Where is he? 

O'Grady. And that, too, sir, leastwise where I 
saw him last a bit since. He was on the road 
to the village, looking grim and fiery-like. 

61 ACT III 



John goes out left front, furiously. Enters Bob 
right front, leisurely. 

Bob. Moina, honey, glad to find you, and gladder 
if I wasn't so bothered. 

O'Grady. "Every horse thinks his own pack 
heaviest," as the folk say. What's the matter? 

Bob. It's my master. 

O'Grady. He's looking for ye, Bob, on the left 
road to the village. 

Bob. I don't want to see him. 

O'Grady. Ye'll have to run somewhere, then — 
he's very hot after ye, and scolding. "He that 
has worst cause makes the most noise," as the 
folk say. 

Bob. He wants to ask me if I've seen the lady — ■ 
worse luck. 

O'Grady. What lady? 

Bob. Mrs. Hawtrey. O, I must do it! Say, 
Moina, honey, can't you bring me to see her ? 

O'Grady. I can, sure. She's a very gentle, kind 
lady and will see ye if I ask her. 

Enters Mrs. Hawtrey, front porch. 

O'Grady. And here she comes, pat. Shall I stay 
by? 

Bob. No ; better leave me alone with such a damn 
business. Bow ! 

act III 62 



O'Grady. Mind your tongue better, Bob Honest, 
honey. I'll have to talk to ye about your 
"damns" and your "bows." 

Mrs. Hawtrey has come down steps and front. 

O'Grady. Mrs. Hawtrey, if ye please. Ma'am, 
here is Bob Honest, Mr. Warren's man, asking 
to have a word with ye. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Certainly, O'Grady. 

Exit O'Grady, rear porch, into house. Bob 
stands fidgeting confusedly. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Kindly come nearer. I think my 
hearing is a little impaired. 

Bob. Yes, Ma'am, I'll come nearer, certainly, 
Ma'am. 

Bob edges ofif considerably. Mrs. Hawtrey 
smiles graciously and humorously. Her man- 
ners throughout are very courteous and re- 
spectful, and Bob is completely overthrown by 
her gentle beauty and grace. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Your way of coming nearer is 
so very respectful that I think I must do the 
approaching. Now, let me hear what you wish 
to say. 

Bob. Yes, Ma'am, you see, Ma'am, my master 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Yes, your master 

Bob. Yes, Ma'am, it's for him, I mean about him 
— or, or 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Yes, your master, Mr. Warren; 
I shall be glad to hear anything of or from Mr. 
Warren. He is an excellent master — is he not ? 

63 ACT III 



Bob. No, Ma'am, that's just what I mean to say — 
I mean, yes. Ma'am, he is, or rather, no, Ma'am 
— I mean 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Be not abashed, my good man. 
Am I so alarming? Tell me freely what you 
have to say. 

Bob. (Aside) I can't do it! 

Mrs. Hawtrey. If you look at me I think you 
will be reassured. I'm not so dreadful to 
look at. 

Bob. Yes, Ma'am! No, Ma'am! Certainly! Cer- 
tainly not! (Aside) I can't do it. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. I am sure that anything of or 
from Mr. Warren will be important and inter- 
esting. Say enough to set me guessing, so that 
I can help you. 

Bob. (Aside) I won't do it! Master's nonsense 
may go the the devil, and be damned to it ! I'd 
as soon lie to my grandmother ! 

Mrs. Hawtrey takes a step or two nearer. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Pardon me — I did not quite catch 
your words. 

Bob. I say, Ma'am, you're so kind — and so lovely 
— that I can't say anything. 'Scuse me, 
Ma'am. 

Exit Bob, on the run, into house, rear porch. 
Enters O'Grady, front porch. 

ACT III 64 



Mrs. Hawtrey. Wonderful! There is something 
very touching in reverence for place — not al- 
ways deserved. Ah! O'Grady, I'm no wiser 
by your good Bob Honest than I was before. 

O'Grady. Couldn't he say anything to ye, Ma'am? 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Not a word. 

O'Grady. What ? and me after bringing him ! I'm 
bothered with him, entirely. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. I think my Agnes is in the park, 
and I have come out for her. It's nearing the 
dinner hour. 

O'Grady. Yes, Ma'am. 

Exit Mrs. Hawtrey, rear gate, into park. En- 
ters Bob, rear porch, through garden, and is 
rushing off left front, with wave of his hand 
to O'Grady. 

O'Grady. Bob Honest! 

Bob. By and by, Moina, honey. Must find Mas- 
ter. 

O'Grady. No, now ! 

Bob comes back to O'Grady. 

Bob. Well, what is it? 

O'Grady. That's what I want to know, entirely. 
Your master bothers you, and you bother me, 
you ask to speak to the lady, and then say 
never a word to her, your master's vexed with 
hunting you and now you're tearing after him. 
What's it all about? And by the same token 

65 ACT III 



I'd like to get a word with my mistress; but 
since the Doctor Uncle Job came, he's that 
taken her that I haven't a minute with her. 
Now, what are you about? ''Lock up a wom- 
an's wit and 'twill out at the chimney," as the 
folk say. What's all the pother? 

Bob. Don't hold me now, Moina, honey. You see, 
Master orders me to tell your beautiful old 
lady some lie about him, and when I saw her 
I couldn't do it, and I won't — that's flat. Bow ! 

O' Grady. Wow ! 

Bob. What? 

O' Grady. Wow ! 

Bob. What's that? 

O'Grady. That's my answer to your "bow." 

Bob. What? 

O'Grady. Sure 'tis my answer. Did you ever 
know a "bow" without a "wtj^pv"? 

Bob. And do you mean, Moina O'Grady, that 
when I say "bow" you'll answer with "wow"? 

O'Grady. Every time. Bob Honest. I've as much 
right to bark as you have. 

Bob. But I barked first. 

O'Grady. But ye don't own all the barking. 

Bob. Hark 'e, now, Moina O'Grady — I said "bow" 
first, and it's long since, and when I'm stirred 
up, it eases the heart of me, mind you, and I'm 
not to be mocked out of it, Moina O'Grady. 
Bow! 

ACT III 66 



O' Grady. Wow ! 

Bob. I'll settle with you soon. It's find my master 
now — for the devil knows what he may be 
doing or saying, relying on my telling his whop- 
per for him. 

Exit Bob, hurrying off left front. Enters 
Gaston, right front, disguised as venerable 
old man with long white hair and beard. 

Gaston. Oh ! my good woman, will you tell me 
whose place this is? 

O'Grady. Sure, sir — it belongs to Mr. Richard 
Dunder. 

Gaston. Ah ! I have heard of it. Fine old place, 
fine old mansion, very fine. May I have leave 
to stroll around the grounds? 

O'Grady. Of course, sir, entirely — go as you like, 

and welcome; and don't wait, sir. ''Every time 

the sheep bleats it loses a mouthful," as the 

folk say. 

Gaston enters into the shrubbery from view. 
At same time enters John hotly right front, 
and meets O'Grady, 

John. Have you seen him yet, O'Grady? 

O'Grady. Him ? 

John. Bob, of course. 

Here enter, left front, Uncle Job and Aunt 
Jane, talking. 

O'Grady. Yes, sure, he was here just now, and 
went off like mad down the road after your- 
self, entirely. ''A little with quiet is the only 
diet," as the folk say, and I say. 

67 ACT III 



John. What's he after me for? 

O'Grady. Well, sir, ''Mum is the mother-tongue 
for Johnny Don't-know," as the folk say; and 
"A fool may chance to put something into 
a wise man's head" ; but I've nothing for ye 
this time. 

John goes left. 

Uncle Job. Ah! Mr. Warren again! 

John. Can't stop, Doctor — not for a word — no. 
Madam — must be excused — got to find my 
man! 

Exit John, left front, excitedly. 

Uncle Job. Note that. Ma'am. I am confirmed 
in my suspicion. My dear Aunt Jane, 'tis prob- 
ably a case of mania. 

Aunt Jane. What mania, my dear Uncle Job? 

Uncle Job. A new one. That's the interest of it. 
Let me explain, my dear Madam. There are 
delusions and there are manias, and they differ. 
Now, I have had a theory, founded on some ob- 
servation, some observation. Ma'am, that for 
every delusion there is a corresponding mania. 

Aunt Jane. How interesting, my dear sir. I am 
tiptoe to learn the difference between a delu- 
sion and a mania. 

Uncle Job. Exactly, Ma'am. You will see it 
plainly. One of the most common delusions 
is the idea that some person or persons are 
watching, following, pursuing, hunting one. 

ACT III 68 



Aunt Jane. Yes. 

Uncle Job. And therefore there is a like mania — 

Aunt Jane. I see — a mania for watching, follow- 
ing, pursuing, hunting. 

Uncle Job. Just so. Ma'am. You should have 
been a physician, my dear Aunt Jane. But, 
Ma'am, the mania not yet has been observed 
actually, nor even mentioned as suspected. I 
have inferred it analogically. And here I run 
on a probable, I almost may say a positive, case 
of it. Mr. Warren is undoubtedly afflicted 
with it. He has all the symptoms of mental 
perturbation, and you have seen yourself what 
a furious hunt he is on. It is a new thing. I 
call it Zetomania, which means the seeking or 
pursuing mania, from the Greek, from which 
most of our medical names are derived. 

Aunt Jane. And you say it is a discovery, my 
dear Uncle Job ? 

Uncle Job. My dear Aunt Jane, I think I am on 
the brink of an important medical and psycho- 
logical demonstration, the exhibition of a new 
species of mania, which I shall call Zetomania. 
I must follow up Mr. Warren at once, to ob- 
serve his actions and symptoms and gather and 
note down everything. 

Aunt Jane. But, my dear Uncle Job, if now you 
go pursuing, may not you become possessed 
with — with — what is it? 

69 ACT III 



Uncle Job. Zetomania. Certainly not, Ma'am. A 
mania has no object — it is its own object, just 
tO' be pursuing. But I have an object, a pur- 
pose, a scientific aim — all the difference in the 
world, dear Madam. Oh ! I must after him at 
once ! You will excuse me for this reason, and 
not think me rude or — or — unsociable? 

Aunt Jane. My dear Uncle Job, certainly. I 
would help, not hinder. 

Uncle Job. I know you would, admirable lady. I 
am off at once. Au revoir! 

Exit Uncle Job, hastily, left front. Aunt Jane 
stands looking after him. O'Grady watches 
her with interest, and then approaches. 

O'Grady. Now, Ma'am, as the Doctor Uncle Job 
has gone hunting a hunting, perhaps I may have 
a few minutes with my dear mistress. 

Aunt Jane. Tut ! tut ! O'Grady, what are you say- 
ing? Don't talk so. I shall scold you. Come, 
now, and help me dress for dinner. 

Enters Bob hurriedly, right front. 

Bob. Moina O'Grady, have you seen my master? 

O'Grady. Yes, Bob Honest; Mr. Warren just now 
went off wild-like down the left road, after ye, 
entirely. 

Bob. I must catch him, I must, I mustl Saving 
your presence. Ma'am. 

Exit Bob, wildly, left front. 
ACT III 70 



Aunt Jane. I wonder if the man has ze — ze — 
what is it? — the hunting mania, as well as the 
master. 

O'Grady. No, indeed, Ma'am, not he. I am sure 
Bob has sound cause for hunting his master, 
entirely. 

Exit Aunt Jane and O'Grady into house, front 
porch. Mrs. Hawtrey enters by rear gate, and 
comes forward through the garden, and Gas- 
ton comes from the shrubbery and meets her. 

Gaston. Good afternoon. Madam. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Good afternoon. Ah ! sir, I think 
I both know you and not know you. 

Gaston. You honor me, Madam. But how can 
that be? And may I be privileged to know 
you? 

Mrs. Hawtrey. I am Mrs. Hawtrey, and I think 
you are Mr. Dunder's Uncle Job. 

Gaston. Ah ! Madam, the fine divination of the 
feminine mind — wonderful ! 

Mrs. Hawtrey. O, sir, I can not claim that gift, 
for I have heard Mr. Dunder refer to the genial 
appearance of his distinguished Uncle. Dis- 
carding ceremony — easy in this simple, charm- 
ing home — let me say how pleased I am to 
meet you. 

Gaston. I am gratified, dear Madam, the more as 
you are the only one I have met, though I have 
been here an hour or two. 

71 ACT III 



Mrs. Hawtrey. This is truly a house of freedom. 
Every one goes his own way, and leaves every 
one else to himself, as much as he pleases. 

Gaston. Excellent! The comfortable way for 
guests. Is the company large? 

Mrs. Hawtrey. O, no — only Mrs. Dunder's Aunt, 
my daughter and I, and the latest arrival, Mr. 
Warren. 

Gaston. Warren, Warren? Why, why, that — 
that — O, but it can not be, of course. I knew 
a Mr. Warren who was a plausible bad fellow. 
He was an embezzler with men and a false 
friend with women. But it can not be the same 
man, of course. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Surely not. He seems very esti- 
mable and engaging, this Mr. Warren, Mr. 
Dunder's chum and friend, Mr. John Warren. 

Gaston. John, John ? Is his name John, Madam ? 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Yes. 

Gaston. Tell me. Madam, has he an elderly serv- 
ant named Bob — Bob Honest? 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Why, yes, sir. 

Gaston. Ah! 'tis the same man — sad thing. He 
embezzled largely from trust-funds, and was 
arrested, but in some way escaped, and then 
deserted an estimable girl — Brown? Brown? 
Marjorie — yes, I remember distinctly — Marjo- 
rie Brown. She died soon, of a broken heart, 
they said. 

ACT III 72 



Mrs. Hawtrey. A most painful story. Can there 
be no question ? 

Gaston. I fear not. But I will say nothing, do 
nothing, publicly — only inform my nephew. 
And may I desire you to say nothing. Madam ? 

Mrs. Hawtrey. But, sir, I feel a mother's duty to 
my daughter. 

Gaston. O ! ah ! yes ! Pardon me. But at least 
you will not need to refer to me? 

Mrs. Hawtrey. No, sir, indeed. Be sure I shall 
respect your confidence. And now will you 
excuse me? The surprise has been painful. 

Exit Mrs. Hawtrey into house, front porch. 
Enters Bob, hurrying, right front. 

Bob. Please, sir, do you know my master, Mr. 
Warren ? 

Gaston. By sight. 

Bob. Is he hereabout, sir? 

Gaston. Heard of him in the house — not seen him 
about the grounds. 

Exit Bob, hurrying into house, rear porch. 
Gaston cautiously and quickly removes his dis- 
guise to wipe his face with handkerchief, and 
then replaces it. 

Gaston. Risky game! Wish I could know who 
this Uncle Job is. 

Enters Bob, hurrying, front porch. 

Gaston. My good man 

73 ACT III 



Bob. Can't stop, sir — sorry, sir — mean no harm, 
sir — must find my master. 

Exit Bob, hurrying, left front. 

Gaston. Hello! Warren's rascal so hot after 
him? What's up? Wish I knew. Damned 
unpleasant to grope in the dark without know- 
ing what bits of facts you may bark your 
shins on. 

Gaston goes to left front, enters Agnes there. 
Gaston passes her with a low bow, and exit. 
Immediately enters John Warren, right front. 

John. Miss Hawtrey, have you seen my man 
Bob? 

Agnes. Why, yes, Mr. Warren, just now, on yon- 
der road. I passed him — or rather he passed 
me, going like distraction. 

John. Thank you ! Pardon, I must catch him. 

John goes impulsively to left front, pauses, 
then returns slowly to Agnes. 

John. I must find my man, but will wait a moment 
in hope of your benison. 

Agnes. Benison ! What a solemn term ! I wish 
you better luck in your somewhat whimsical 
chase. 

John. That's not what I mean. Miss Hawtrey. I 
plead to be allowed to think of you. 

Agnes. Think of me? 

John. Dream of you. 

Agnes. Dream ? 

ACT III • 74 



John. Think of you, dream of you, seek you, love 
you! 

Agnes. Sir! 

John. I have said it. 

Agnes. What is this, sir? 'Twas but this morn- 
ing you told me your utter aversion to mar- 
riage. Were you sincere ? I agreed with you, 
I was sincere. Were you trifling then, or tri- 
fling now? 

John. Neither. What has life to do with time? 
Can you count it by hours? I have thought 
much since morning — and felt still more, which 
is the best kind of thinking. 

Agnes. But what was reason this morning is rea- 
son this evening. I can not whiflle about in 
this way. 

John. You may call it whiffling, if you like; but 
I know better. One may live months in a day. 

Agnes. But, Mr. Warren, reasons count. Do you 
forget? A man has no command of his time 
after marriage — he must be at home on time, 
and stay there on time, and be at meals on time 
— O, dreadful ! 

John. But, Miss Hawtrey 

Agnes. And a man's a ninny who has no convic- 
tions. Suppose he marries contrary convic- 
tions: then he must be flabby, or fight. Hor- 
rible ! 

75 ACT III 



John. But, Miss Hawtrey 

Agnes. And a man's a booby or else he has firm 
habits. These are locked up with opposed 
habits, and then one must yield, or there's war. 
Wretched ! 

John. That's stupid stuff. 

Agnes. But I am quoting you. 

John. Well — it makes me sick to hear you say it. 

Agnes. And a man's a fribble or else he has strong 
tastes, which tie up with strong adverse tastes 
or else with limp no-tastes ; and then he must 
reduce himself, or there's a clash. Intolerable ! 

John. But, Miss Hawtrey 

Agnes. And all these bits of common sense for 
a man I turn about and say for a woman, and 
one more, that it's odious and demeaning for 
a woman to have to scheme and plot how to 
keep her husband. 

John. But, is marriage to be condemned because 
there are bad ones? Are there no noble mar- 
riages and no good lovers? 

Agnes. Perhaps, perhaps; but you thought them 
too rare and the risk too great — and so do I. 

John. There is one good answer to all that: — 
when I talked in that way, I had not known 
you. 

Agnes. O, Mr. Warren, find something more sen- 
sible and original. 

ACT III • 76 



John. Miss Hawtrey, I must find my man Bob, 
and now more than ever. But do what you 
will to escape me, I'll do the same to follow 
you. Climb mountains — Fll do it, swim an 
ocean — I'll do it, girdle the earth — I'll do it, 
fly to a star— I'll do it ! 

Agnes. Or make a long speech — you'll do it ! 

John. Miss Hawtrey, Agnes, you can not tire me 
out or laugh me out. I meant not to show you 
my heart so soon, but meeting you so suddenly, 
so lovely and so dear, shook the truth out of 
me, like an eagle shaken from a tree in a storm. 
Good-bye now, but I'll never give you up ! 

Exit John, excitedly, left front, after Bob. 

Agnes. Merciful Powers ! Well ! Compares what 
he calls his love (silly boy, to think he has come 
to that) to an eagle shaken from a tree in a 
storm. And he'll follow me around the earth, 
or off it! I must grant he's a bit masterful, 
after all. 

Enters Aunt Jane from house, front porch, 
dressed for dinner. 

Aunt Jane. Near dinner time, Miss Agnes. 

Agnes. Yes, Aunt Jane. But I fear the company 
will be broken today. Mr. Warren has hurried 
away just now, looking for Bob. 

Aunt Jane. And Uncle Job is away looking for 
Mr. Warren. 



77 



ACT III 



Agnes. What will Mrs. Dunder say? You know 
she is particular about the dinner hour. I 
must go make ready. 

Exit Agnes into house, front porch. Enters 
Uncle Job, right front, warm and somewhat 
tired, but still determined. 

Uncle Job. My dear Aunt Jane! Happy luck! 
Have you seen him, Mr. Warren ? 

Aunt Jane. No ; but Miss Agnes says he has 
just gone off on the left road, looking for Bob. 

Uncle Job. Still hunting! O, I must find him 
and note all his conduct while the fit is still hot 
on him! 

Uncle Job goes excitedly toward right front, 
pauses, returns to Aunt Jane. 

Uncle Job. Yet I will delay a moment to say, my 
dear Aunt Jane, that while following hard after 
Mr. Warren, I have not run away from 
thoughts of you. 

Aunt Jane. It is good to be remembered. 

Uncle Job. And I want to say that I have been 
thinking of that young man's face you saw 
once and never have forgotten. 

Aunt Jane. And perhaps about the girl's face you 
saw. Uncle Job. 

Uncle Job. Yes, Ma'am, that, too ; because I want 
to tell you about it, and hope you will then tell 
me your case. 

Aunt Jane. Yes, Uncle Job. 



ACT III 



78 



Uncle Job. 'Twas a bright morning Ma'am, and 
I had wandered out to the banks of a Httle 
river in a country place, and there, under a 
flowering Dogwood, I saw the most lovely 
young girl fast asleep. Soon she awoke — ^per- 
haps my rapt gaze wakened her — looked at me 
with frightened eyes, leaped up and ran away. 
That is all. And now your story, Ma'am, if 
you will. 

Aunt Jane. Why, sir, I wandered out one bright 
June morning to the banks of a lovely little 
river, lay down under a flowering dogwood and 
fell asleep. When I awoke I saw a manly, 
honest-looking young fellow looking at me, and 
I ran away as fast as I could, confused and 
frightened enough, I can assure you. 

Uncle Job. Dear Aunt Jane, you amaze me. The 
same story! What was the place? 

Aunt Jane. A pleasant little hamlet named Half- 
Way, nestled among the White Hills. 

Uncle Job. My place, too ! And was it on an 
eighteenth of June, Ma'am? 

Aunt Jane. It was, indeed! And between nine 
and ten in the morning. 

Uncle Job. The same hour. Then you were the 

lassie ! 

Aunt Jane. And you were the laddie! 
Uncle Job. Wonderful, Ma'am ! 
Aunt Jane. Wonderful, sir! 

79 ACT III 



Uncle Job. And you never forgot! 

Aunt Jane. And you never forgot! 

Uncle Job. No, indeed, Ma'am; nor you? 

Aunt Jane. No, indeed, sir; nor you? 

Uncle Job. No, no, dear Aunt Jane, as I have 
said. But I don't say, Ma'am, but that during 
all these years I might have met a worthy 
woman and loved her. 

Aunt Jane. And I don't say, sir, but that during 
all these years I might have met a worthy man, 
and loved him. 

Uncle Job. Only, I did not. 

Aunt Jane. Only, I did not. 

Uncle Job. Ah, well! 

Aunt Jane. Yes, ah, well ! The time has gone. 

Uncle Job. What time has gone. Ma'am? The 
past has gone; not the present. 

Aunt Jane looks quietly down. 

Uncle Job. I said. Ma'am, the present has not 
gone. 

Aunt Jane. Yes, sir. 

Uncle Job. Well-l~l, well, well, well, well, well! 
Here I am. Ma'am, a famous old man. 

Aunt Jane. Not old, sir. 

Uncle Job. Don't you call sixty rather old? 

Aunt Jane. And here am I, an old woman not 
famous. 

ACT III 80 



Uncle Job. Not old, Ma'am. 

Aunt Jane. Don't you call fifty rather old? 

Uncle Job. No, damned if I do — hem ! — 'em — 'em 

— 'em — 'em ! 

Uncle Job is embarrassed and Aunt Jane 
quietly amused. 

Uncle Job. Ah ! Madam, Madam, Madam, we 
seem both of the same mind — and memories — 
why can't we be of the same heart? 

Aunt Jane. The same 

Uncle Job. And marry, Madam, my dear Aunt 
Jane! Marry, just for love, like any other 
young things — yes, indeed, Ma'am! 

Aunt Jane. You honor me, sir, and — the honor is 
much to me. But I see a difficulty — a great 
difficulty 

Uncle Job. Damn difficulty — hem! — 'em — 'em — 
'em — 'em — 'em ! 

Aunt Jane. I mean, I have no heart for it. 

Uncle Job. No heart, Madam? You grieve me. 

Aunt Jane. Dear sir, 'tis logical. 

Uncle Job. Logical, Madam? You puzzle me. 

Aunt Jane. Why, sir, as I love you with all my 
heart, I fear there is none left to marry you 
with. 

Uncle Job. Ah ! my witty charmer ! Whether 
wittier or prettier I know not. Bless me, how 
pretty you look at this moment ! Dear Madam, 
by your leave. 

81 ACT III 



The betrothal kiss. 
Aunt Jane. But, sir, you will keep it secret awhile? 

Uncle Job. Of course, my dear Jane, if you wish. 
But why? 

Aunt Jane. I fear the young people may laugh at 
us and call us a couple of old fools. 

Uncle Job. Why, indeed, looking at me, they 
might call you that; but looking at you, they 
would call me the wisest old fool — hem ! — 'em 
— 'em — 'em ! I mean — damme if I know what 
I mean ! Ah, come, ma'am. 

Aunt Jane. But you will be secret. Privacy is so 
sweet for a time. 

Uncle Job. Yes, indeed! We will run away, if 
you wish — positively elope ! Ah ! come, my 
dear; there is a pleasant seat in a shady nook 
in the garden. 

Aunt Jane. But, my dear Job, you forget! There 
is Mr. Warren, and the mania ! 

Uncle Job. True, my dear Jane, true! We must 
sacrifice ourselves for science. I'll after him, 
till I catch him. I'll carry my head with me 
for science, but leave my heart with you for 
love, and come back to you as soon as ever I 
can. 

Exit Uncle Job left front. Enters Agnes from 
house, front porch, dressed for dinner. 

Agnes. Why, Aunt Jane, what has happened? — 
your eyes shine so ! 



ACT III 



82 



Aunt Jane. I suppose I'm old fashioned. 

Agnes. Old fashioned? 

Aunt Jane. Yes, it seems old fashioned to be 
happy. 

Agnes. Why how you talk! Don't I seem happy? 

Aunt Jane. Not nearly as happy as I am. 

Agnes. Well, perhaps I shall be when I learn how. 
You can teach me. 

Aunt Jane. No, indeed ! It takes a man to teach 
that. 

Agnes. A man ! 

Aunt Jane. Yes; Mr. Warren might teach you, 
perhaps. But ah ! no ; he has that sad mania. 

Agnes. Mr. Warren? A mania? 

Aunt Jane. Yes, Zetomania, the doctor calls it — 
a mania for hunting persons or things. He has 
been chasing madly for hours after his man 
Bob. 

Agnes. O, that's no mania. I know all about that — 
some business matter. Mr. Warren was talk- 
ing with me quietly, when he remembered 
some important matter he had with his man, 
and went to find him, excusing himself very 
properly. That's all. 

Aunt Jane. And there was some business, a rea- 
son ? 

Agnes. Of course — pressing business, he said. 

83 ACT III 



Aunt Jane. Then it's all a mistake. And my Job 
is running about for nothing! I must find the 
dear soul and tell him. 

Exit Aunt Jane, hurriedly, into house, front 
porch. 

Agnes. Her Job? What is the matter? What is 
happening — to everybody ? 

Enters Mrs. Hawtrey from house, front porch, 
dressed for dinner. 

Agnes. Ah ! Marmee, how pretty you look in that 
dinner dress ! 

Mrs. Hawtrey. For shame, dear ! I am far on the 
shady side of that. 

Agnes. Not a bit of it. You will always be beauti- 
ful. If you looked to my father as pretty once 
a week as you look to me all the time, I don't 
wonder he was such a lover to you. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. My dear, my dear, I wish his 
daughter and mine might have such a lover. 

Agnes. That's the pity of it, Marmee. Nature 
never repeated my father. 

Mrs. Hawtry. Wrong, wrong, my girl. Nature 
never makes just the same thing twice; but 
that's not needful, and Nature never is ex- 
hausted of good. 

Agnes. I see no young men like him, mother. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. How can the young be like the 
old ? Besides, you don't know them. But, dear, 
I have something sad, very sad, to say to you. 

ACT III 84 



Agnes. Then say it quickly, Marmee. 

Enters Aunt Jane from house, front porch, 
dressed in walking-skirt, and with just a wave 
of her hand to Mrs. Hawtrey and Agnes, 
passes quickly to left front, and exit. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. 'Tis about Mr. Warren. I have 
learned today that he embezzled largely from 
trust funds and was arrested, though in some 
way he was let go. Also that he was faithless 
to a good girl, jilted her cruelly and broke her 
heart. 

Agnes. Who told you these things, mother ? 

Enters Bob, wildly, right front. 

Bob. 'Scuse me, ladies — has master come yet — is 
he here — have you seen him ? 

Mrs. Hawtrey. No, my good man. Have you, 
Agnes ? 

Agnes. I saw Mr. Warren go hurriedly by the left 
road a few minutes ago. 

Bob. Thank 'e. Ma'am — 'scuse me, Ma'am. 

Bob hurries off, left front. 

Agnes. Mother, who told you? 

Mrs. Hawtrey. I can not tell you that, Agnes — 
I promised. But I had it very directly, from 
one in position to know. 

Agnes. Why have you told me these things, Mar- 
mee? 

85 ACT III 



Mrs. Hawtrey. Because, my dear, because, in my 
little talk this noon — you remember you left 
Mr. Warren with me — I saw plainly his mind 
was beginning to dwell on you. 

Enters John Warren, right front, hurrying. 

John. Mrs. Hawtrey, I beg, have you seen my 
man? 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Yes, sir, he hurried off a few 
moments ago down the road yonder. 

John. Ladies, I know that my behavior must seem 
grotesque; but I must find my man, I must. 
Pardon me if I hasten after him. 

Exit John, abruptly, left front. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Well, my dear, this seems ab- 
surdly like our Tommy Pussy. Does our 
Tommy chase his tail or the tail chase Tommy ? 

Agnes. Marmee ! 

Mrs. Hawtrey. But really, my dear, isn't it a 
little hard to take the matter seriously? Mr. 
Warren did very well to call his conduct gro- 
tesque. Better come in now, Agnes — it's din- 
ner time. 

Exit Mrs. Hawtrey into house, front porch. 
Enters Uncle Job, hurrying, right front. 

Uncle Job. Ah ! Miss Hawtrey, fine day, very fine, 
but a little warm when a somewhat portly per- 
son like me undertakes a race. Pray have you 
seen Mr. John Warren? 



ACT III 



86 



Agnes. Why, yes, sir; he left this spot but a mo- 
ment ago, hurrying down the road after his 
man Bob. 

Uncle Job. Ha! Still hunting! The mania 's 
acute! Pardon, Miss Hawtrey, I'll make an- 
other effort to come up with him. 

Exit Uncle Job, left front, hurriedly. 

Agnes. What would Marmee say to that? 

Enter Aunt Jane, right front, hurrying. 

Aunt Jane. O, my dear Agnes, tell me, have you 
seen Uncle Job? 

Agnes. Why, indeed. Aunt Jane, he went hurry- 
ing down the road yonder this very instant. 

Aunt Jane. O, then I can overtake him! Ex- 
cuse me, my dear! 

Exit Aunt Jane, left front, hurrying. 

Agnes. What would Marmee say to that? 

Japanese gongs sound from house. Enters 
O'Grady from house, front porch. 

O'Grady. The first bell. Miss Hawtrey. Dinner 
will be served in fifteen minutes. If you 
please. Ma'am, is Bob Honest hereabout, do 
you know? 

Agnes. No; a little while ago he went off hastily, 
or rather wildly, down the road. 

87 ACT III 



O'Grady. Faith, Miss, something 's got him. 
"Little pot, soon hot," as the folk say; but I 
wouldn't call Bob such a stew-pan — no. Miss. 
But "Send a wise man on an errand and say- 
naught to him," as the folk say; but when Bob 
sends himself, the De'il knows what may hap- 
pen — saving your presence. Ma'am — Bob 's that 
quick and flashing-like. I 've barely set eyes 
on him since I took him to your lady mother, 
as he asked me, and then he came away dis- 
tracted-like. 

Mrs. Dunder appears at the house door, front 
porch. 

Mrs. Dunder. O'Grady! 

O'Grady. Yes, Ma'am, coming, Ma'am. 

Exit Mrs. Dunder and O'Grady into house, 
front porch, 

Agnes. So ! It was Bob Honest then, who told 
my mother the tales about his master. 

Enters Bob, hurrying, right front. 

Bob. Begging pardon, Ma'am, is master here yet? 

Agnes. He is not. He went off down the road a 
few minutes ago. 

Bob. With your leave. Ma'am 

Bob goes hurrying to left front; just at the 
exit Agnes calls him, 

Agnes. Bob Honest! 

Bob. Yes, Ma'am. 

Agnes. Come here. 

ACT III 88 



Bob returns slowly, unwillingly, and a little 
startled. 

Agnes. Bob Honest, perhaps your name might 
better be Bob Dishonest. 

Enters O'Grady from house, front porch. 

Bob. Who says that, Ma'am? 

O'Grady. Why, there 's Bob. 

Agnes. I am saying it. 

Bob. You, Ma'am! I don't want to be ugly, 
Ma'am, but if any one says that of me, who- 
ever 'tis, any lady, or any gentlefolk man or 
woman, even master himself, which it wouldn't 
be, the saints bless him! I 'd tip my chin, and 
say. No, sir. No, Ma'am! Bow! 

O'Grady. Wow ! 

Bob starts, looks over at O'Grady shame- 
facedly, and begins to edge off toward left 
front. 

O'Grady. Miss Hawtrey, your mother asks for 
you. 

Agnes. Yes, O'Grady, say I am coming. 

Exit O'Grady into house, front porch. 
Agnes. Bob, come back. 

Bob returns, sullenly and much troubled. 

Agnes. Look me in the face. 

Bob looks up and down and on all sides, con- 
fusedly. 

89 ACT III 



Agnes. In the face, Bob. Now ! What were you 
doing with my mother when O'Grady took you 
to her ? Why did you wish to see her ? What 
had you to say to her? Tell me that. 

Bob. No, Ma'am! Yes, Ma'am! Do, Ma'am? 
Nothing, Ma'am. Say, Ma'am? Nothing, 
Ma'am. Fact is, Ma'am, I — Yes, Ma'am. Par- 
don, Ma'am. Must run, Ma'am. 

Bob has been edging away and returning and 
edging away still further during these words, 
and now bolts suddenly off, left front. 

Agnes. Plain enough. Confusion is writ all over 
him. Pah! the mean rascal! But 'tis true as 
Marmee said, he has place and means for know- 
ing. Ah me! 

Enters John Warren, right front, hurrying. 

John. Miss Hawtrey, has any one seen Bob? 

Agnes. Yes, Mr. Warren, he has this instant hur- 
ried off by the left road. 

John. Ah! then I shall catch him now. Pardon 
my haste. 

John is hurrying off, left front, when Agnes 
calls to him. 

Agnes. Mr. Warren, a word! 

John returns quickly to Agnes. 

Agnes. I have something to say to you as im- 
portant perhaps as your hurry after your man. 

John. At your pleasure, Miss Hawtrey. 

AOT III 90 



Agnes. My mother has told me something dis- 
graceful. 

John. Of me? 

Agnes. Yes. 

John. It can not be both disgraceful and true, 
because there isn't anything. 

Agnes. My mother has been informed that Mr. 
John Warren embezzled money from trust- 
funds, and was arrested for it, but in some 
way evaded trial. 

John. That is true. 

Agnes. You said just now it could not be. 

John. Yes, of me. But I wish it were true of 
me 

Agnes. Sir ! 

John. Rather than of the John Warren who did 
it. 

Agnes. And that one was 

John. My father. 

Agnes. And he escaped 

John. Yes, because 

Agnes. Well 

John. He died. It was at our old home where 
before there had been nothing but honor. I 
was with him — we were talking — ^of pleasant 
plans — when the officer entered and arrested 
him. He paled, faltered, glanced once at me, 
swayed a little — and fell dead. 

91 * ACT III 



Agnes. And the old home? 

John. It went to pay the embezzlement. 

Agnes. My mother told me of a young girl, named, 
named 

John. Marjorie Brown. 

Agnes. Yes, whom John Warren jilted cruelly and 
broke her heart. Was that 

John. My father? No. 

Agnes. You, then? 

John. No. 

Agnes. A lie, then? 

John. In part. I was just beginning to think of 
her. After my father's end I kept proudly 
away from her. I thought she should be free 
to send me a word of respect and regard if she 
wished. She never did. Perhaps she never 
thought of me at all, perhaps she thought I had 
deserted her^ — perhaps my pride was wrong. I 
meant to tell you of her. 

Agnes. What became of her? 

John. She had a little fortune — not much — a 
scoundrel married her for it — spent it — desert- 
ed her — and she died, broken-hearted, as you 
said. 

Agnes. Who was he? 
John. Gaston. 

ACT III 92 



Agnes. Mr. Warren, I thank you gratefully, even 
humbly, for your confidence. I am sorry I felt 
driven to what I fear seems now like an intru- 
sion. 

John. No intrusion. 

Agnes. Ought I not to have waited your own time 
and will? 

John. No; you had right to question me at any 
time. 

Agnes. I fear the hard point is yet to come. 

John. Then tell it. There can be no really hard 
point — though I would like to know what 
scandal-monger told these tales. 

Agnes. That is the hard point. 'Twas your man 
Bob Honest — so called. 

John starts violently, then controls himself 
and speaks quietly : 

John. Well called. Miss Hawtrey. Bob is as hon- 
est as the day. Do you knoiv 'twas he? Did 
your mother say so? 

Agnes. Good inference is good knowledge. I 
know that your man sought interview with my 
mother and O' Grady obtained it for him. Im- 
mediately afterward my mother told me the 
stories. Meantime Bob became worried and 
troubled and has continued so. Then I bluntly 
asked him what he had to say to my mother; 
at which he was confused and ran away. 'Tis 
all too plain. What his purpose was in such 
treacherous lies you may judge better than I. 

93 ACT III 



Enters O'Grady from house, front porch. 
O'Grady. Miss Hawtrey! 

John. (Aside) Whew! Bob has obeyed with a 
vengeance ! 

0''Grady. Please, Miss, your mother asks for you 
again. 

Agnes. Yes, yes, O'Grady, say I will come at once. 

Exit O'Grady into house, front porch. 

Agnes. You hear, sir — I must go to my mother. 
I am sorry to leave you so troubled. 

John. I am not troubled. My life on my man's 
faithfulness ! He may have told the stories — 
it looks so, but — perhaps Bob thought I would 
wish him to tell the stories. 

Agnes. What ! 

John. I mean — perhaps he thought the stories 
would serve me. 

Agnes. What ! 

John. Perhaps he told the true stories, and your 
mother misunderstood. 

Agnes. My mother's head is very clear. Besides, 
why should he talk to her at all? His guilt is 
too evident. Sir, my abhorrence is extreme. 
I cannot endure such a traitor and ingrate, who 
has abused my mother, and through her myself, 
with venomous falsehoods. My friendship 
means the dismissal of your man. 

ACT III 94 



John. Miss Hawtrey! 

Agnes. Certainly. What else can I think, or say? 

John. Dear Miss Hawtrey, don't turn me off be- 
cause I cannot turn Bob off. Listen ! This is 
a hard moment for me. Bob was born in the 
family and was a stout lad when I was an in- 
fant. He has been with me all my life, de- 
voted to me. To turn him away now would 
break his heart and make a vagabond of him. 
Suppose him guilty, I cannot do that. 

Agnes. Can these old ties excuse an actual traitor, 
slanderer, ingrate? 

John. Bob is none of those things. Appearances 
are against him, but there will be explanation. 
To judge in such haste is unjust, cruel. 

Agnes. But if he did tell the lies, if he proves the 
fellow I think him, what then? 

John. In no case would I drive from me my life- 
long servant and the son of my poor father's 
faithful man — not even were he what he seems 
to be. 

Agnes. As you please, Mr. Warren. Accept my 
farewell. 

John. One moment — at least understand me. I 
have told you of the awakening of my love to 
you. It is the truth, and it shines into this 
wretchedness now like a morning over a hill 
into a dark valley. I must think there's no 

95 ACT III 



pleading for me in your heart if you make such 
a condition. But no real man need do what he 
will not; and I will not love you at price of 
base harshness. If I must drown out my love 
to you I will, and that will be better than 
drowning my manhood in cruelty to my old 
servant. Now, by your leave, I will continue 
my chase of him, which must appear, I am 
aware, rather fantastic; but I must find him, 
and now more than ever. Miss Hawtrey, if 
you can require me to be cruel, we were not 
made to understand one another. 

Exit John, left front. 

Agnes. Manful ! Masterful ! Perhaps there may 
be explanation — perhaps ; and if so, I think I 
have found a lover; and if I have, O, John, 
John, you have found a wife who will adore 
you forever. 

Exit into house, front porch. 



CURTAIN. 



ACT III 96 



ACT IV. 



SCENE — The same. Time, the late edge of twilight, with 

brilliant moon. The stage is amply light, so that 
motions and expressions are plainly visible, though 
the tint of the illumination is of a delicate green- 
ish and amber cast, mingling late twilight and 
moonlight. 



Enters Gaston, right front, still disguised with 
wig and beard. He looks about watchfully 
and then enters shrubbery and is hidden. 

Bob. (Outside) Out o' the way, booby! What? 
You won't ? Take that ! 

Enters Agnes from house, front porch, and 
comes down to center front, and at same 
moment enters Bob, right front, backward 
and speaking off. 

Bob. You lout, if you don't like the ditch-mud, get 
out of my way, and don't be so damn curious 
what I'm hurrying for. I'll toss any one into 
the ditch who stands up in front of me — any 
one — mark that ! 

Here Bob turns and finds himself looking 
close into the face of Agnes, and retreats a 
step, confused. 

Agnes. Will you toss me into the ditch ? 

Bob. No, Ma'am. 

Agnes. No? You said any one. 

Bob. No, Ma'am — only any man. Ma'am. Please, 
have you seen my master ? Do tell me, Ma'am. 



97 



ACT IV 



Agnes. Just before dinner, not since. 

Bob tries to edge around Agnes. 

Agnes. No! Stand where you are! Now, an- 
swer. Why did you tell my mother those slan- 
derous lies about your master? 

Bob. I told no lies to your mother, Ma'am. 

Agnes. Bob ! 

Bob. I said not a word to her. 

Agnes. Bob ! When O'Grady took you to her ! 

Bob. 'Tis true, Ma'am. I couldn't say a word. 

Agnes. Bob ! 

Bob. 'Twas this way, Ma'am. Your lady mother 
was standing near where you are, Ma'am, and 
I was on the other side. Ma'am, like this. 

Here Bob edges around Agnes, and she turns 
facing him. 

Bob. And then I ran away — like this. 

Bob bolts off, left front. 
Agnes. Escaped me again, the sly rogue ! 

Re-enters Bob, left front. 

Bob. One thing, Ma'am — did your lady mother say 
I told her tales of master? 

Agnes. That seems plain enough. 

ACT IV 98 



Bob. O, does it? Well, Ma'am, if you think that, 
you must just think it. Beg pardon — don't 
mean to be uncivil — I'm only my master's man, 
but I held him when he was a babe, and hang 
me if I'll talk with any one who says I told 
tales of him. 'Scuse me, Ma'am. I'm looking 
for him now — been chasing him round and 
round since hours, Ma'am. Good-bye, Ma'am. 

Exit Bob, left front, indignant and hurrying. 

Agnes. O, what must I think? What do? What 
feel? John Warren, what so moves me? We 
spoke truth to one another — I had as little mind 
for marriage as you. But now — now ! — I must 
think, think — perhaps be willing to be led! 
Come to me, dear, cool quiet of the night — still 
me, lead me ! I will go with you and be alone. 

Exit Agnes through garden into park by rear 
gate. Gaston appears in shrubbery, watching 
Agnes, then tears off his disguise of wig and 
beard, throws them under a bush, and cau- 
tiously but hastily follows Agnes. Enter 
O'Grady from house, front porch, and John 
Warren, right front, and they meet front. 

John. O'Grady, have you seen my man yet? 

O'Grady. No, I haven't, sir. That's what I'd like 
to do. Where is he entirely? And where's 
everybody ? 

John. True enough, O'Grady, and it's confounded 
awkward that I haven't seen Dick or Mrs. Dun- 
der yet. But that'll have to wait. I must find 
Bob. 

Exit John left front. Enters Mrs. Dunder 
from house, front porch. 

99 ACT IV 



Mrs. Dundee. Surprising, O'Grady. Where are 
they all? Uncle Job, Aunt Jane, Mr. Warren, 
all absent from dinner. Fine doings ! Where 
are they? 

O'Grady. I don't know. Ma'am ; and by the same 
token, where's Bob Honest? He's been chas- 
ing round about the country wonderful, that I 
can't get sight or word of him. What does it 
all mean, entirely? I suppose I shall find out 
some time. "Tomorrow I found a horse-shoe," 
as the folk say. I'd rather have it now. 

Mrs. Dunder. Look for Aunt Jane once more 
around the house, O'Grady. 

O'Grady. Yes, Ma'am. 

Exit O'Grady into house, front porch. Enters 
Uncle Job right front, hurrying. 

Uncle Job. Ah ! Mrs. Dtmder, perhaps you can 
help me, Ma'am. Have you seen Mr. John 
Warren hereabout? 

Mrs. Dunder. No, Uncle Job. I've heard of his 
arrival, but haven't seen him, and he's not here. 
Where is he? 

Uncle Job. That's what I'd like to know. Ma'am, 
and if you'll excuse me, I'll keep about it. I 
must come up with him. 

Exit Uncle Job, hurrying, left front. Enters 
Dick from house front porch, with a deep 
sigh and dismal groan. 

Mrs. Dunder. O, Dick! The blue devils still? 
Have them to yourself, then ! No doleful 
dumps for me. 

ACT IV 100 



Exit into house front porch. Enters Aunt 
Jane, right front, hurrying. 

Aunt Jane. Oh ! Dick, my good Dick, tell me — 
have you seen Uncle Job ? 

Dick. No, nor you, either, nor anybody. Dismal 
dinner ! Dismal day ! 

Aunt Jane. Sorry, Dick, very sorry ! But I must 
find Uncle Job. 

Exit left front hurriedly. Enter Mrs. Dunder 
and O'Grady from house, front porch. 

O'Grady. But sure, Ma'am, ye'll not find fault 
with me. What do ye expect, entirely ? That 
I should make her first to find her afterward? 
I know she's not in the house, nor anywhere 
round about the place. Ye can look yourself, 
Ma'am. "No barber shaves so close but an- 
other finds work," as the folk say. 

Mrs. Dunder. Strange and vexatious ! 

Dick. That's true. It's all strange and miserable, 
and every one is strange and miserable. I sup- 
pose you're the only one all right, Mehit — I 
mean Abel or Bel. 

Mrs. Dunder. Don't be foolish, Dick. I'm look- 
ing for Aunt Jane. 

Dick. Oh ! She passed by just now, and went off 
yonder, in a great hurry. 

Mrs. Dunder. Follow her, O'Grady, and find her, 
if you go to the world's end. 

O'Grady. That I will, Ma'am. 

101 ACT IV 



Exit O'Grady left front after Aunt Jane. 
Dick wanders off moodily through the garden 
and enters house by rear porch. Enters Mrs. 
Hawtrey from house, front porch. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Dear Mrs. Dunder, relieve my 
anxiety — what's the matter? What is happen- 
ing? 

Mrs. Dunder. Indeed, I'd like to know, Mrs. 
Hawtrey. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. There seems some muffled thing 
going on. Guests absent at dinner, and Agnes 
away somewhere, not with me as usual of an 
evening. What is it all? 

Mrs. Dunder. There's something strange i' the 
wind, as you say; but I'm as puzzled as you 
are. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. I am concerned about your good 
husband, my dear. He seemed not well at 
dinner. 

Mrs. Dunder. Oh ! My poor Dick ! my Dick ! my 
heart smites me for him. If you'll excuse me, 
I'll go find him and try to cheer him up. 

Exit Mrs. Dunder into house, front porch. 
Enters Bob right front, hurrying. 

Bob. (Aside) The beautiful old lady! 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Ah! the good man who was so 
bashful. 

Bob. I didn't go for to do it, Ma'am. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. My good man, do what? 



ACT IV 



102 



Bob. Say anything to you, Ma'am. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Say anything to me? 

Bob. Yes, Ma'am — or no. Ma'am! And what's 
more, I wouldn't. Ma'am — no, Ma'am ! 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Remarkable! My good — have I 
known your name? Pardon me, I have for- 
gotten. 

Bob. Bob, Ma'am, just Bob, Bob Honest; and 
that's what Bob is, Ma'am, whatever some folks 
may say, Ma'am. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Some folks may say? Who say? 
And what ? What is going on ? My good Bob 
Honest, you puzzle me sadly, and I don't know 
what it all means. 

Bob. No more do I, Ma'am. I'm just Bob, and 
after my master. 'Scuse me while I pass you, 
and keep after him. Ma'am. 

Here, half defiantly, but with every sign of 
respect and with an awkward bow, Bob edges 
around Mrs. Hawtrey, and then still backs 
away, till suddenly he trips, slips backward 
and sits down involuntarily. At same mo- 
ment enters John Warren, right front, who 
runs to Bob, seizes him by the shoulder and 
helps him up. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Oh! 
John. What damage, Bob? 
Bob. None, sir, please you, sir. 
John. Ha ! At last, then ! 
Bob. Yes, sir, and high time, sir. 

103 ACT IV 



John. Mrs. Hawtrey, excuse my rude haste. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Quite excusable, sir. 

Mrs. Hawtrey speaks with a cool reserve and 
turns to go into house. 

John. Dear Madam, I pray you, if I may dare en- 
treat, remain a few moments. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. At your pleasure, sir. 

John. And pardon me a moment with my man 
first. 

He leads Bob a little aside. 

John. O, you rascal ! What have you to say for 
yourself ? 

Bob. And what have you to say for yourstW? 
That's what I ask. Damme, sir, yes, sir, and 
I'm that riled with all my running after you 
that I don't know what I say or do. 

John. Bob! Why, Bob! 

Bob. I know I'm your servant, and so I will be, 
please Heaven ! But I want to know why you 
treat me the like of this, giving me such a damn 
piece of business and then being out of the way 
and not to be found when I wanted to tell you 
as how I couldn't do it, no, sir, nor wouldn't, 
no, sir! 

John. What did you tell Mrs. Hawtrey? 

Bob. Nothing, sir. 

John. Her daughter says you told her mother a 
precious fine story of me. 

ACT IV 104 



Bob. Well, I didn't, sir, whoever says it. 

John. Stay here, Bob. Mrs. Hawtrey — pardon, 
let me be direct and frank — I find your manner 
different from the gracious regard you showed 
me this morning, and I know things dishonor- 
able to me have been told you. I thought my 
man had told you, but he says 'tis not so. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. He has not said a word to me. 

John. Who has? 

Mrs. Hawtrey. That I can not tell you. I prom- 
ised. 

John. Then I must guess. Who, who? Dick 
knows; but he wouldn't tell — soul of honor — 
I know him. His Uncle Job knows, or in part, 
might get it wrong — and I don't know what 
Uncle Job is. Mrs. Hawtrey 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Yes, sir. 

John. Was your informer a somewhat old and 
venerable-looking person ? 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Why, Mr. Warren, I suppose I 
must confess so much. 

John. Mrs. Hawtrey, it was my friend's Uncle 
Job! 

Mrs. Hawtrey. That I must not say, sir. 

John. 'Tis plain enough! What malice, malice, 
malice! And what could be his motive? 

Enters Uncle Job right front, hurrying. 

105 ACT IV 



Uncle Job. Ha! At last! Here's my quarry. 
Now to put down minutely all his symptoms 
and behavior. 

Uncle Job takes out notebook and pencil. 
John has drawn himself up and stands with 
folded arms looking haughtly at Uncle Job, 
who scans him a moment, and then writes 
in the notebook. 

Uncle Job. Stern and haughty manner; stands 
very straight. Bless me, what pronounced 
symptoms — same as sometimes in Megalo- 
mania. Silent — fierce eye. Exhibition very 
striking, couldn't be plainer. 

John. What are you doing there? 

Uncle Job. (Writing) Asks questions — abrupt 
— rude — some curiosity. 

John. I say, what are you writing? 

Uncle Job. (Writing) Persistent. Insists on 
answer. Grows louder. 

John. Well, sir, will you speak? Why do you 
look at me and then jot notes? 

Uncle Job. (Writing) Suspicious. Turns things 
toward himself. Bless me, very much the same 
as in Megalomania. 

John. Slanderer! Gossip-monger! Peddler of 
lies! 

Uncle Job. (Writing) Calls names, very angry 
and bitter. 

John. When you met me here, did you go right 
about to hunt me down and blacken me? 



ACT IV 



106 



Uncle Job. (Writing) Delusion that he is hunted 
as well as mania to hunt others. 

John. Answer me, and thank your age that I don't 
shake it from your chattering teeth — why did 
you abuse this venerable lady with a pack of 
infamous lies about me? I'll ram them down 
your throat in her presence. 

Uncle Job. Eh? Lies? To this lady? I don't 
know this good lady, never spoke to her, and 
never talked of you to anybody. What are 
you saying, young man? Are you sane at all? 

Mrs. Hawtrey. O, Mr. Warren! Pray be calm. 
There is some mistake. This is not the old 
gentleman who told me the story of you. 

John. Not the man? Who else, then? This is 
Uncle Job. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Dear sir, I know not. I called 

the other one Uncle Job, and he accepted the 

name. I fear I have been deceived in some 

way. 

Enters Aunt Jane, right front, hurrying. 
Uncle Job is astonished and at once gives 
his whole attention to her. 

Aunt Jane. My dear Job! 

Uncle Job. My dear Jane! 

Aunt Jane. Happy luck I I have overtaken you ! 

Aunt Jane goes at once to Uncle Job and 
talks to him earnestly. Meanwhile: 

John. Bob ! 

107 ACT IV 



Bob comes to John, at side of Mrs. Hawtrey. 

John. Bob, tell this dear lady what kind of a 
fellow you know me to be. 

Bob. O, indeed, Ma'am, the best master 

John. Go on, Bob. 

Bob. He doesn't know much yet, Ma'am, but the 
dearest master 

John. Go on. Bob. 

Bob. I've had him, Ma'am, ever since he was 
"knee-high to a grass-hopper," or of no size 
at all. Ma'am, and he was always the beauti- 
fulest little fellow, and always went to school 
lovely, Ma'am, and never stole jam. Ma'am, 
and even yet he's the innocentest baby 

John. That'll do. Bob, you may retire. I want 
Mrs. Hawtrey to think me something of a man. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Indeed, my dear lad, I need no 
more assurance. I am full of penitence for my 
error. How it was I can not guess, but I am 
sure I was misled grievously. 

John. O, Mrs. Hawtrey, "dear lad" sounded good 
to my ears. If I might have your leave to try 
— ^try to win you for my mother some day ! 

Mrs. Hawtrey. That's very grave, my boy, very 
serious ; but, yes, if you can succeed, I shall be 
willing, glad; and I'll mother you dearly. 

John leans forward and kisses the lovely ven- 
erable lady on the forehead. 



ACT IV 



108 



Uncle Job. What? Well, well! And so Mr. 
Warren had some pressing business with his 
man? Why, then 'tis no mania, as I said. 
Well, hum! I'm glad the young fellow's 
sound and well, though I'm sorry to lose my 
specimen of Zetomania. But I shall find one — 
I tell you the mania exists. 

Aunt Jane. Of course, my dear Job. 

Uncle Job. And you have been hurrying after me 
tO' tell me 

Aunt Jane. To save my — my 



Uncle Job. Your humble lover. Ma'am 

Aunt Jane. From the mistake and exertion. 

Uncle Job. Admirable woman! You give me a 
new sensation, my dear Jane, that of being 
looked after and taken care of. 

Enter O' Grady, right front, hurrying. 

O'Grady. My mistress, for sure! "There's more 
than one way to trap a fox," as the folk say^ 
saving her presence. 

Goes up to Aunt Jane. 

O'Grady. Mighty glad to find ye, Ma'am. Mrs. 
Dunder sent me to look for ye. 

Aunt Jane. Did she, O'Grady? I'll find Mrs. 
Dunder very soon. 

O'Grady goes over to Bob. 

O'Grady. Well, Bob Honest. 

Bob. Well, Moina O'Grady. 

109 ACT IV 



O'Grady. I think ye'd better walk off a space with 
me and give an account of yourself, Bob 
Honest. 

Bob. ril give a mighty good account of myself, 
Moina O'Grady. 

O'Grady. I'll look to that, Bob Honest, and find 
out where ye've been sparkin' and larkin'. 
Come along, Bob. 

Bob and O'Grady go through the garden into 
the shrubbery. Enter Mr. and Mrs. Dunder 
from house, front porch. 

Mrs. Dunder. Why, here are the runaways ! All 
of them! 

John. And very penitent, my dear Mrs. Dunder — 
at least, speaking for myself — sorry for the 
foolish blunders which have kept me from pay- 
ing my respects before. 

Mrs. Dunder. Just as welcome now, sir. 

John. And Dick, Dick ! My dear old friend and 
chum ! How are you ? 

Dick. Bad enough, John, but as well as anybody. 

John. What? What's the matter with you, Dick? 
You look like all the blue devils together. 

Dick. You'd better ask what is not the matter. 
Nothing's the matter — everything's the matter. 
It's a sad world, John, a dreadful creation. 

John. What? Hoh! poh ! pish! pshaw! stuff! 
twaddle! nonsense! 



ACT IV 



110 



Dick. Thank you, my dear John. I didn't know 
I was quite such a fool. But it's of a piece 
with everything. 

John. Dick! What on earth — I'm struck dumb! 
I never saw you in such a plight. 

Mrs. Dunder. Don't say it's his marriage, Mr. 
Warren. He had blues before — he says so. 

John. Why, Dick, I say, Dick, if you don't like 
the earth and think everything is going to the 
devil, except yourself, look up. See that moon, 
and the sky it's sailing through, and the bright- 
est stars just twinkling out, and ten thousand 
shy twinklers waiting for a little more hush and 
shadow. You can't find any of your doldrums 
up there. 

Dick. Eh? A sorry sight! 

John. Oh ! Dick ! well, go it alone ! You must 
be left to croak out your croaking. When 
you've done with your raven-caw, I'll show you 
how chanticleer crows the sun-up. 

Mrs. Dunder. But, Mr. Warren, what happened? 
Where were you all at dinner time? 

John. Well — I was chasing my man round and 
round, down the left road to the village and 
back up the right road, half a day! 

Dick. No? 

John. Yes. 

Dick, What for? 

Ill ACT IV 



John. And Bob was chasing me all the time the 
same way. 

Dick. No? 

John. Yes. 

Dick. What for? 

Uncle Job. And I was chasing Mr. Warren, like 
an old hawk after a chicken. 

Dick. No? 
Uncle Job. Yes. 
Dick. What for? 

Aunt Jane. And I brought up the rear of the 
merry-go-round, chasing Uncle Job. 

Dick. No? 

Aunt Jane. Yes. 

Dick. Humph ! some dee-deed sense in that ! My 
Uncle Job is a fine old party ! 

Mrs. Dunder. Dick, for shame! How can you? 
Look at my sweet, modest Aunt Jane. 

Uncle Job. O, let him talk. Ma'am, let him talk! 
"They laugh who win" — and that's myself. 

Aunt Jane has turned her face from the com- 
pany at Dick's last remark. Now Uncle Job 
goes to her, takes her hand gallantly and 
turns her gently around toward them all. 

Uncle Job. Dick, you doleful dunce, let me pre- 
sent to you your double Aunt, soon to be, your 
own and your wife's. And, my dear Mrs. 
Dick, let me present to you your double Uncle, 
myself, soon to be, your own and your hus- 
band's. 



ACT IV 112 



Dick. What? Delightful! A thousand congrat- 
ulations, Aunt Jane. I'll kiss the bride. 

Uncle Job stops Dick. 

Uncle Job. Not so fast, Dick Dunder — there's no 
bride yet. Besides, you don't deserve it, no, 
sir ! Damme ! Hem — 'em — 'em — 'em — 'em — 
I mean you don't, you grumpy brabbler ! 

Dick. But let me understand. Do you mean that 
Bob was chasing John Warren? 

They all nod, and so on through all Dick's 
questions. 

Dick. And John was hunting for Bob? And 
Uncle Job was wagging his stout trotters after 
John ? And Aunt Jane was dancing along after 
Uncle Job? Round and round and round? 
Well, dee-deed if this isn't the dee-deedest fun 
I've seen in ten years. 

Dick bursts into a gale of laughter, in which 
Mrs. Dunder joins. 

Dick. Round and round and round all dinner 
time ? 

They all nod again. 

Dick. Well, dee-deed, ha! ha! ha! ha! but this is 
the dee-deedest grotesque, ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! thing 
I've ever met, ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! in this dee-deed 
serious, ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! old world ! Ha ! ha ! 
ha! ha! 

Uncle Job fetches Dick a stout slap on the 
back, which silences him with a jerk. 

113 ACT IV 



Uncle Job. Shut up ! And stop your damn dee- 
dees — there are ladies present! And hark 'e! 
Our scamper seems to have kicked your blue 
devils out of doors. Nov^, Dick and Mrs. Dick, 
take a word of advice from your double 
Uncle 

Aunt Jane. And double Aunt, my dear Job. 

Uncle Job. Ay, sir, ay. Ma'am, we both say one 
thing to you. Keep in the same way at the 
same time — d'ye hear? You're starting again 
jolly together. Now, when you must be blue, 
be blue at the same time. Blue together, gay 
together — that'll do no harm. But it's damn — 
hem — 'em — 'em — 'em — 'em, I mean, the Dick- 
ens is in it when one's gay and the other's 
blue. Mind that, you silly goslings ! 

Here enter from shrubbery at left Bob and 
O'Grady, Bob holding Gaston's disguise. At 
same time enter Agnes and Gaston from park, 
rear gate, and come forward through garden. 
Meantime Bob speaks to John : 

Bob. If you please, sir, we found these under a 
bush, queer things, sir — looks like as a rogue 
had been scared out of his hair and run away. 

John takes the articles and looks at them 
curiously, glacing at Gaston meanwhile. 

Agnes. Mother, let me present Mr. Gaston — I 
have had no opportunity before. He has just 
told me of matters which will keep him at a 
distance, so that we shall see him little or not 

ACT IV 114 



at all henceforth. But after my somewhat 
long absence just now I insisted that he should 
come here, to be introduced to you and to our 
hosts. 

Gaston. Dear Madam, your servant. 

Agnes. Mr. and Mrs. Dunder, Mr. Gaston. 

Gaston. Mr. Dunder and dear Madam, I am 
happy to know you. This fine old place is 
well known to fame. Beautiful home! 

Dick. We find it delightful, sir, and our friends 
are welcome. Miss Hawtrey's introduction is 
a passport. 

Agnes starts, turns away distressed, and moves 
a few steps to center. 

Gaston. Mrs. Dunder, dear Madam, will you allow 
me to be abrupt for once? I must return to 
the city instantly, and must mingle an unwilling 
farewell with your kind welcome. 

Gaston, with a courtly bow, goes past Agnes, 
and turns to face her. 

Mrs. Dunder. What charming manners! 

Gaston. Miss Hawtrey, remember I can not, can 
not, will not, accept banishment. 

Meantime John has said a few words to Bob, 
who has approached Gaston from behind, and 
just as he recovers from a bow to Agnes, Bob 
clasps his arms around him, pinioning Gaston's 
arms tight to his sides. John has come up at 
one side, and now tosses off Gaston's hat, 
claps the wig on his head and holds up the 
beard to his face. Thereupon Mrs. Hawtrey 
utters a faint cry of surprise and dismay. 

115 ACT IV 



Mrs. Hawtrey. Oh ! this is the old gentleman who 
told me the story against Mr. Warren. 

John tosses the wig and beard aside. 

John. Done for, Gaston; run to earth, you sly 
fox ! Let him go, Bob. 

Gaston. Mrs. Hawtrey, Mr. Dunder, Mrs. Dun- 
der, I will explain this affront at a suitable 
time, avoiding a scene now. John Warren, 
I'll see you tomorrow. 

John takes no notice of Gaston's words, but 
looks at Dick with a wave of his arm toward 
the left exit, and Dick nods to him and then 
to Bob, who picks up Gaston's hat. 

John. Give him his hat. Bob. 

Bob speaks closely to Gaston: 

Bob. Better go quiet and quick, sir. I'm pretty 
tough still. You'd not like to be fisted out or 
booted out by master's man. This way, sir. 

Exit Gaston, left front. 

Agnes. My friends, I am covered with confusion 
and chagrin. 

John. Please say not a word, dear Miss Hawtrey. 
I understand it all, and will explain to our 
friends and hosts. 

Mrs. Dunder. You entertaining runaways have 
had no dinner. You must be starved. Come 
at once to the dining room for a collation. 
O'Grady, get something on the table. 



IV 



116 



Mr. and Mrs. Dunder, Uncle Job and Aunt 
Jane, Mrs. Hawtrey exeunt into house, front 
porch. Bob and O'Grady go into house 
through garden by rear porch. Agnes is fol- 
lowing her mother, when John speaks : 

John. Agnes ! 

Agnes. Yes, John. 

John. May it not be time to tell me what is that 
big, big, big thought you spoke of this morn- 
ing? 

Agnes. Perhaps, John. 

John. Agnes, I can think of no such big thought 
for us as love. Agnes, you are distressed and 
troubled just now, and no wonder. Tomorrow, 
Agnes ? 

Agnes. Tomorrow, John. 

John seizes Agnes' hand and kisses it fer- 
vently. Enters Mrs. Hawtrey on porch of 
house. 

Mrs. Hawtrey. Agnes, Mrs. Dunder wishes your 
help. 

Agnes. Coming, Marmee. 

Exeunt Mrs. Hawtrey and Agnes into house, 
front porch ; at same time Bob enters from 
rear porch through garden quickly. 

Bob. Mr. Warren, sir. 

John starts slightly, and turns. 

John. Ah ! Bob. 

Bob. Yes, sir — I want to see you particular, sir. 

John. Well, you see me. 

117 ACT IV 



Bob. Yes, sir — I want to tell you about the 
O'Grady and me, sir. 

John. O, go along with you, you sly rascal! Do 
you think I have no eyes? 

Bob. And you're not angry ? 

John. No, indeed. 

Bob. And you don't jeer me? 

John. No, indeed. 

Bob. I'm main glad, sir; but yet 

John. Well — yet? 

Bob. I'd take Moina O'Grady, sir, if you raged 
like a menagerie of tigers all together, and 
jeered like a laughing hyena! 

John. That's all right. Bob — and I like a little 
grit in you again. I say. Bob, I've thought 
you mighty dull lately. I haven't heard you 
say "Bow" for an age. 

Bob. Why, you see, sir, I couldn't — had to give 
it up. 

John. Give it up? 

Bob. Yes, sir. You see, sir, every time I said 
"Bow," Moina O'Grady said "Wow." She 
said there was never a "Bow" without a 
"Wow." Now, a man couldn't keep on saying 
"Bow" with a woman always by and always 
answering "Wow" — could I, sir? I put it to 
you, now, — could a man? 

ACT IV 118 



John. Well, not very easily — it would be a little 
hard, Bob. But, Bob, I shall be here longer 
than I supposed, and you can go back to the 
city awhile if you want to. 

Bob. I, sir? 

John. Yes; you grumbled enough at leaving it 
this morning. 

Bob. What, sir? Go back to the city, sir? And 

leave you, sir? And leave Moina, too? 

Damme, sir, what would become of either of 

you? Leave you, sir? I, sir? No, sir! 

Bow! 

John points at Bob mockingly. Bob starts, 
takes furtive looks right and left and shows 
much dismay. 

John. O, Bob, Bob! Careful, Bob! 

O'Grady puts head far out of window of 
house on front porch, or on side of house. 

O'Grady. Wow ! 

Bob fans himself with his hat. John pats his 
shoulder mockingly and laughingly. 



CURTAIN. 



119 ACT IV 



NOV 28 1910 



LEMr'll 



A MERRY-GO-ROUND 

A COMEDY 

By JAMES VILA BLAKE 



I 



I 



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